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_GERM*AN  _ , 

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ct  Novelists  ' 


A     ROUND     TABLE 


OF  THE  REPRESENTATIVE 


GERMAN  CATHOLIC  NOVELISTS. 


CuA^iy~ti^ Y 


*ir  ^'  y/  *'^^V/y 


^;^     ^^j/j^^nM<^^^^ 


A     ROUND     TABLE 


OF     THE     REPRESENTATIVE 


GERMAN  CATHOLIC  NOVELISTS 


At  which  is  Served  a  Feast  of  Excellent  Stories. 


BY 


CONRAD  V.  BOLANDEN 
FERD.  von  BRACKEL 
Dr.   H.   CARDAUNS 
KARL  DOMANIG 
EMMY  GIEHRL 
HEINRICH  HANSJAKOB 


ANTONIE  HAUPT 
M.  HERBERT 
ANTONIE  JUNGST 
EVERILDA  von  PUTZ 
OTTO  von  SCHACHING 
JOSEPH  SPILLMANN,  S.J. 


With    Portraits,   Biographical   Sketches,  and  Bibliography. 


Santa  Barbara,  California 

NEW   YORK,  CINCINNATI,  CHICAGO: 

BENZIGER     BROTHERS, 

Printers  to  the  Holy   Apostolic  See. 
1902. 


Copy«iGHT,   1902,  BY  Benziger  Brothers. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

Sister  Angela  .....  Antonie  Jungst  9 
Afra.      a  Tyrolese  Tale  of  the    Eighteenth 

Century           ....           Otto  von   Schaching  25 

The  Postilion  of  Schoenberg          .          .          Karl   Domanig  41 

Sacrifice.      A  Tyrolese  Village  Tale     .      Everilda  von  Putz  59 

Just  a  Simple  Story            .          .          Ferdinande  von  Br  ache  I  jj 

Tinsel          .......      M.  Herbert  99 

Children  of  Mary           ....          Emmy   Giehrl  117 

The  Good    Dean  Ensfried.     A  Story  of  the 

Twelfth  Century  .  .  .  .  H.  Kerner  137 
King    Ratbodo.       A    Tale    of    the    Seventh 

Century          ....         Conrad  von  Bolanden  157 

Nicholas  Cusanus  ....  Antonie  Haupt  177 
Long    Philip.       A    Tale    of    the    Time    of 

Frederick  William  I.         .         .      Joseph  Spillmann,  S.J.  195 

From  the  Story  of  an  Unhappy  Life          .          H.   Hansjakob  221 


ANTONIE  JUNGST. 


Antonie  JiJNGST  was  born  in  Werne,  Westphalia,  on  June  13, 
1843,  and  was  baptized  on  the  27th,  in  the  Catholic  faith  of  her 
n:iother.  Her  father  was  a  Protestant  and  a  descendant  of  a 
preacher  family  well  known  in  the  olden  German  literature.  After 
the  death  of  both  her  parents  the  child  found  a  second  home  in 
the  house  of  Judge  Crone  in  Rheine,  Westphalia.  Her  parents  by 
adoption  sent  her  to  the  Ursulines  at  Aix-la-Chapelle  in  1860  to 
complete   her  education.     She   studied  with   them  for  a  year  and 


a  hc-If  and  then  removed  to  Miinster  with  the  Crones.  Here  she 
came  under  the  influence  of  the  bHnd  poet  and  teacher.  Professor 
Schlueter,  and  the  association  undoubtedly  liad  a  great  influence 
on  her  development.  Yet,  though  she  read  to  the  venerable 
Processor  for  hours  every  v/eek,  and  studied  English  and  Italian 
poetry  with  him,  she  could  not,  for  a  long  time,  bring  herself  to 
show  him  her  own  attempts  at  poetry. 

She  lived  for  years  in  Miinster,  devoting  herself  to  the  care  of 
her  aging  foster-mother,  after  the  death  cf  Judge  Crone.  Every 
summer  there  was  an  excursion  into  Switzerland,  the  Tyrol,  or  to 
Italy,  as  a  rest  and  inspiration. 

Since  1893,  when  her  adopted  mother  died,  the  authoress  has 
lived  alone,  giving  herself  up  entirely  to  charity  and  to  her  writings. 

She  first  came  to  public  notice  in  1883  by  the  publication  of 
her  epic  '•  Konradin,"  which  deserves  to  rank  with  the  best  that 
German  epic  literature  has  produced.  The  poem  ran  through 
several  editions  and  was  followed  by  a  prose  work,"Der  Glocken 
Romfahrt, "  which,  though  not  in  measured  rhythm,  had  yet  the 
spirit  of  poetry  in  its  telling.  Then  appeared  another  epic  poem 
"Der  Tod  Baldurs."  In  1889  there  followed  "Gesucht  und 
Gefunden,"  "Tagesbuchblatter  eines  alten  Frauleins,"  and  the 
epic,  "Unierm  Krummstab."  A  few  years  after  she  sent  forth; 
"Das  Vater  Unser. "  a  cycle  of  poems;  "Wider  Willen,"  three 
novels;  "  Leben  und  Weben,"  songs  and  poems;  "  Rerinald  von 
Reinhardsbrun, "  a  novel;  and  others.  Her  latest  book,  "Roma 
Eterna,"  consists  of  impressions,  in  prose  and  poetry,  of  the 
Eternal  City. 


Sister  UrxQcla. 

BY  A.  JUNGST. 

A  TELEGRAM  from  an  overkind  officer  friend  brought  me  back 
to  the  city  abruptly  from  a  trip  to  my  old  home  in  May  of  last 
year.  To  be  sure,  my  furlough  was  not  up  for  another  week,  but 
the  news  of  the  transfer  of  the  major  and  the  retirement  of  the 
colonel  of  the  regiment  in  which  I  was  surgeon-major  made  the 
stay  at  the  country-seat  of  my  brother-in-law  seem  tedious.  I 
was  filled  with  the  desire  to  be  present  myself  at  these  far-reach- 
ing changes. 

So  I  bade  my  brother  and  his  wife,  my  nephews  and  my 
nieces  farewell  early  the  next  morning.  They  all  seemed  very 
sorry  to  see  the  bachelor  uncle  go. 

By  some  miscalculation  on  the  part  of  the  coachman  we 
turned  the  corner  of  the  station  street  just  as  the  express  puffed 
away  with  apparently  delighted  malice  at  our  discomfiture.  If  I 
did  not  want  to  have  the  tearful  scenes  of  the  morning  repeated 
on  the  next  day,  there  was  nothing  but  to  wait  here  for  the  local 
train,  due  in  two  hours,  and  spend  the  night  in  Hanover,  instead 
of  Berlin.  I  took  the  matter  as  cheerfully  as  possible,  therefore, 
and  after  enduring  two  long  hours  on  the  tedious  streets  of  the 
little  town,  the  train  at  last  came  along  and  carried  me  off 
through  a  stretch  of  not  less  tedious  moor  country.  I  had  just 
replaced  my  watch,  after  pulling  it  out  for  the  tenth  time  to  cal- 
culate whether  the  train  would  arrive  in  Hanover  in  time  to  per- 
mit me  to  hear  the  opera — it  was  the  "  Cavalleria  Rusticana,"  as  I 
had  taken  care  to  learn — when  there  was  a  jerk  that  made  the 
windows  of  the  coup6  rattle,  and  before  I  had  time  to  think  what 
might  be  happening  the  train  was  at  a  standstill  in  the  wide 
field.     I  rushed  out  to  learn  what  was  wrong.      Startled  faces 

9 


10  SISTER  ANGELA. 

everywhere,  astonishment,  aimless  questionings,  and  an  equally 
aimless  running  to  and  fro  on  the  part  of  the  passengers,  upset 
as  ruthlessly  as  I  had  been,  in  their  plans  for  the  immediate 
future.  The  axle  of  a  locomotive  was  broken  and  a  continuation 
of  the  journey  was  not  to  be  considered  at  present. 

"  If  the  ladies  and  gentlemen  will  kindly  walk  on  to  the  next 
station — it  is  only  a  little  quarter  of  an  hour's  walk  to  Schilda — 
the  station  for  Wellendorf '' — the  conductor,  a  pleasant,  gray- 
haired  man,  tried  to  suggest  to  the  excited  passengers,  "  in  little 
more  than  an  hour  the  damage  will  be  repaired,  and  then  we  can 
go  on  without  danger." 

I  took  out  my  watch  once  more  and  looked  at  it,  full  of  annoy- 
ance. Half-past  three !  We  were  due  in  Hanover  at  seven !  As 
it  was  it  would  be  nine  or  more  and  no  choice  but  to  spend  the 
beautiful  May  evening  in  stuffy  hotel  rooms.  But  what  was  to 
be  done?  In  the  end,  perhaps,  I  ought  to  have  been  grateful  to 
have  escaped  without  injury.  Except  for  my  tourist  bag  and 
umbrella,  I  had  no  luggage,  and,  taking  these,  I  followed  the 
other  travelers  towards  the  little  station  indicated. 

"  Ah,  Major !  What  a  pleasure !  Are  you  bound  for  Wellen- 
dorf, too?" 

"For  Wellendorf?"  I  asked  in  astonishment,  and  turned  to 
look  at  the  speaker,  a  handsome  j'oung  man  of  about  twenty.  I 
recognized  him  as  Hugo  Forster,  a  rising  young  artist,  whom  I 
had  met  some  time  before  in  Dresden  at  the  house  of  a  friend. 
Seemingly  most  agreeable  in  the  midst  of  the  desolation  of  tedium 
at  this  place  and  time,  it  was  doubly  pleasing  to  meet  him. 

"  Well,  yes,"  said  the  young  man,  smilingly,  after  we  had  ex- 
changed greetings;  "you  have  taken  your  luggage  with  you." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  I  interrupted.  "  Habit,  my  dear  young  friend. 
Experience  has  made  me  wise,  and  I  never  leave  my  things  be- 
hind me  in  a  railway  carriage.  But  what  about  Wellendorf? 
The  name  seems  most  familiar,  and  yet  I  can  not  connect  it  at 
present." 

"  At  Wellendorf  the  large  provincial  asylum  for  idiots  is 
located,"  the  young  man  said  in  a  low  voice.    "  I  thought — " 


A.  JUNG8T.  11 

"  You  thought  I  wished  to  follow  up  some  scientific  studies  ?  " 
I  interrupted  him  once  more.  "  No,  Herr  Forster^  this  time  my 
journey  is  solely  one  of  recreation.  Indeed,  I  expected  to  pass 
this  evening  listening  to  the  new  opera  by  Mascagni,  and  instead 
I  shall  have  to  spend  it  in  that  disconsolate  corner."  I  pointed  at 
the  village  whose  low-roofed  cottages  were  just  rising  to  our 
view  line.  "  Here  I  shall  have  to  spend  hours  of  weary  waiting 
until  the  engine  is  sufficiently  repaired  to  continue  the  journey. 
It  is  most  good  fortune  to  have  met  you — " 

"  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon,  Major.     I  go  on  at  once." 

"You  go  on?  But  where  to,  for  heaven's  sake?  Surely  not 
to  Wellendorf." 

"  I  am  sorry  to  say,  to  Wellendorf,"  my  companion  answered, 
with  a  sigh.  Turning  away  and  seeming  to  follow  intently  the 
upward  flight  of  a  lark,  he  went  on  in  a  lower  tone :  "  You  do  not 
know,  perhaps,  that  I  lost  my  father  when  I  was  very  young,  and 
that  my  mother  has  been  an  invalid  for  years,  and  that  my  only 
sister  is  among  the  unfortunate  children  at  Wellendorf?  It  is  a 
hard  fate !  But  hardest  for  my  poor  mother,  whose  heart  is 
bound  up  in  her  young  daughter,  and  yet  may  not  have  her  near 
her." 

"  And  how  long  has  the  little  one  been  in  the  asylum  ?  " 

"  Since  she  was  five  years  old.  A  conscienceless  nurse,  who  was 
secretly  given  to  drink,  dropped  the  child  when  she  was  barely 
nine  months  old.  The  injuries  she  received  were  followed  by  epi- 
leptic attacks  and  finally  by  a  settled  dementia." 

The  young  man  paused,  overcome  by  his  emotions,  and  I,  too, 
was  silent,  touched  by  the  tragedy  of  his  simple  words.  So  we 
walked  on  together  the  short  distance  remaining  to  the  station, 
each  following  his  own  thoughts.  The  platform  and  waiting- 
rooms  were  crowded  with  the  passengers  who  had  hurried  on 
ahead  of  us,  and  were  now  impatiently  waiting  for  the  saving  train. 
A  light,  two-seated  wagon  was  waiting  at  the  station  gate.  Young 
Forster  spoke  a  few  words  to  the  attendant,  took  his  luggage, 
which  had  been  brought  after  him,  and  then  turned  to  me. 

"  Adieu/'  he  said,  holding  out  his  hand  and  giving  me  a  cor- 


12  SISTER  ANGELA. 

dial  clasp.  "  May  we  meet  again  under  more  pleasant  circum- 
stances.    I  hope  you  may  not  have  to  wait  too  long  here." 

"  One  naoment,"  I  said,  taking  in  the  discomforts  of  the  wait 
at  the  little  station  and  reflecting  that  I  might  not  reach  Han- 
over until  midnight,  "  I  should  like  to  go  with  you.  I  have,  to 
be  sure,  seen  many  other  asylums,  but  in  some  respects  Wellen- 
dorf  is  singular.     If  I  do  not  intrude — " 

"  Oh,  not  at  all,''  he  hastened  to  assure  me,  while  I  could  see 
a  look  of  relief  in  his  serious  eyes.  "  You  do  not  realize  how 
great  a  kindness  it  is  not  to  leave  me  alone  to-morrow,  when  my 
unhappy  sister  receives  Holy  Communion  for  the  first  time.  To 
be  alone  with  her  and  with  my  memories — "  He  stopped  suddenly 
and  went  quickly  ahead  to  the  waiting  wagon.  After  a  few  min- 
utes we  were  rolling  away  from  the  inhospitable  station  over  a  good 
road,  winding  between  hills  where  forest  and  field  alternated  in 
charming  variety.  After  about  two  hours  we  came  to  Wellendorf, 
nestled  close  against  a  high  hill.  A  dozen  houses  hidden  among 
green  trees  half  way  up  the  hill,  the  vast  buildings  of  the  asylum, 
the  whole  overtopped  by  the  slender  church  spire.    That  was  all. 

The  wagon  stopped  before  the  door  of  the  Golden  Deer,  the 
only  inn  of  the  tiny  village,  and  in  a  few  moments  I  was  bestowed 
in  one  of  its  cell-like  rooms.  After  a  light  luncheon  I  followed 
my  companion  to  St.  Mary's  House.  As  I  did  not  want  to  em- 
barrass the  young  man  during  his  interview  with  the  Mother 
Superior  and  the  Sister  in  charge,  I  left  him  at  the  door,  and 
walked  slowly  along  the  garden  wall  further  on  up  the  hill. 

It  was  a  wondrously  beautiful  May  evening.  So  peaceful,  so 
hallowed,  that  I,  tossed  back  and  forth  by  the  whirl  of  the  great 
world,  felt  a  balm  I  had  not  known  for  many  years.  In  the 
cloudless  blue  of  the  sky  the  golden  sun  smiled  down  upon  the 
young  fields  and  meadows  fair  in  the  tender  greenness  of  May,  and 
the  forest  trees,  lining  themselves  in  proud  majesty  along  the 
hillsides  up  and  up  until  lost  in  blue  mists,  were  alive  with  the 
first  beauty  of  spring.  The  curling-leaved  rose-topped  oaks  stood 
out  sharply  against  the  light,  shimmering  green  of  the  beeches 
and  the  dark  needles  of  the  pines.     Innumerable  buds  and  bios- 


A.  Ji/NGST.  18 

soms  were  wherever  the  sun  had  kissed  the  grateful  earth.  The 
hammering  whistle  of  the  blackbird  and  the  call  of  the  finch 
sounded  back  and  forth ;  but,  above  all — oh,  harsh  discord  in  the 
sweet  harmony  of  nature,  gruesome  intrusion  on  the  joy  of  the 
young  world ! — there  came  an  indefinable  mixture  of  sounds,  mar- 
row-piercing noises  like  the  echo  of  the  agony  of  a  thousand 
tortured  human  hearts.  Wherever  I  turned,  the  many-voiced 
surge  followed  me,  that  rose  moaning,  laughing,  shrieking  out  of 
the  walls  of  the  insane  asylum  and  seemed  to  hover  quiveringly  in 
the  silent  air  above. 

Even  more  sharply  the  contrast  cut  into  my  soul  when,  late 
at  night,  tempted  by  the  bright  moonlight  and  the  sweet  breath- 
ings of  the  gentle  spring  air,  I  sat  at  my  window,  letting  the  last 
cigar  be  followed  by  yet  one  more  and  then  the  last.  A  precious 
self-unconscious  reverie  softly  crept  over  me  and  had  almost 
lulled  me  into  slumber  when  a  strange  sound  roused  me  sharply. 

In  the  blooming  lilac  bushes  of  the  inn  garden  a  nightingale 
was  beginning  her  soft,  sad-noted  song,  letting  it  gradually  rise 
fuller  and  higher,  and  at  the  same  time  from  the  heights  above, 
in  clear  and  wondrously  sweet  tones,  came  the  spring  soiUg  of 
Wagner's  "  Walkiire,"  so  strong,  so  pure,  so  full  of  heart  and 
sense-constraining  power,  that  it  fairly  caused  me  to  feel  a  chill 
dread  that  comes  with  the  touch  of  the  supernatural.  Never  had 
the  finished  performances  of  the  most  renowned  prima  donnas  on 
the  stages  of  the  great  cities  stirred  me  as  did  this  song  in  the 
breathless  spring  night. 

I  listened  motionless  and  strained  my  eyes  in  vain  to  discover 
the  unseen  singer.  At  last  I  saw  her.  At  one  of  the  windows  of 
the  institution  opposite,  holding  fast  to  the  iron  bars  and  sending 
forth  one  aria  after  another,  she  crouched.  The  nightingale  in  the 
lilac  bushes  seemed  to  listen  astonished  and  then  became  silent,  but 
then,  too,  the  singer  at  the  window  ceased.  And  when,  after  a 
little,  the  bird  began  to  sing  again,  tentatively,  delicately,  as  if  in 
awe  of  the  mighty  volume  of  melody  to  which  it  had  just  listened, 
the  song  from  above  began  again,  appealing,  repining,  until  both 
voices  melted  into  each  other  in  a  thrilling  exuberance. 


14  SISTER  ANGELA. 

Thus  they  kept  up  a  sweet  response  through  the  whole  night, 
the  song-enchanted  nightingale  in  her  bower  of  blossoms,  and  the 
poor  lunatic  behind  the  iron  bars  of  her  cell.  It  was  no  wonder 
that  sleep  shunned  my  eyes,  and  that  the  dawn  found  me  still  lost 
in  reveries. 

A  beautiful  morning  came  up  over  \Yellendorf .  Light  streamed 
from  the  skies  and  rose  from  the  earth — green  and  gold  and  blos- 
som-rich, the  colors  of  nature  mixed  with  her  kindest  touch — 
only  the  heavy  rising  walls  of  the  asylum  remained  a  sinister  blot 
on  the  sun-warmed  picture. 

My  first  question  was  about  the  mysterious  singer.  Hugo 
Forster,  whose  room  faced  the  street,  had  heard  nothing,  and  was 
therefore  not  a  little  astonished  at  my  pale  and  disordered  appear- 
ance.   But  my  landlady  could  tell  me  more. 

"  The  gentleman  means  the  crazy  Valdina  ?  "  she  began,  hem- 
ming apologetically.  "  Oh,  but  she  is  the  poor,  unhappy  creature, 
and  so  beautiful,  so  beautiful!  The  whole  year  she  mopes  in  a 
corner,  but  when  spring  comes  and  the  nightingale  sings  again, 
then  something  comes  over  her,  and  she  sings  and  sings  every 
night  with  such  feeling  that  you  can  not  help  crying." 

"Valdina?"  I  asked,  reflectively.  "Was  she  not  the  famous 
singer  at  Bayreuth  ?  " 

"  Just  so,  sir,"  the  landlady  began  again,  glad  to  have  a  chance 
to  talk.  "  The  people  say  she  could  sing  like  an  angel.  And 
beautiful  she  was,  and  smart.  Smart  enough  to  turn  all  the 
men's  heads.  But  she  did  not  care  for  any  of  them.  She  just 
made  fun  of  them,  until  one  day  a  fine,  young  gentleman  came 
along.  Slie  loved  him  with  all  her  heart,  and  he  left  her.  Then 
the  poor  thing  lost  her  head,  or  it  went  to  her  head,  as  the  people 
say,  and  since  then — "  The  landlady  tapped  her  forehead  signifi- 
cantly and  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

My  companion,  who  had  been  giving  evidence  of  impatience 
during  this  discussion,  urged  that  we  go  on  at  once.  The  bells 
were  ringing  the  second  time,  announcing  the  immediate  be- 
ginning of  the  sacred  ceremony. 

Wrapt  in  recollections  of  the  talented  and  beautiful  singer 


A.  JUNGST.  15 

whom  I  had  seen  several  times  as  Elsa  in  "  Lohengrin,"  I  silently 
followed  young  Forster  up  the  winding  path.  The  door  of  the 
institution's  church  was  wide  open,  a  sea  of  flowers  and  lights  filled 
the  interior,  and  a  considerable  number  of  people  were  crowding 
into  the  pews  and  aisles.  We  had  barely  taken  the  seats  shown 
us  when  a  door  beside  the  sacristy  was  opened,  and  the  First  Com- 
munion children  entered,  led  by  several  nuns.  There  were  a  great 
many  children,  the  girls  dressed  in  white,  with  veil  and  wreath, 
the  boys  in  black,  and  carrying  a  lily  in  the  right  hand.  My  eyes 
wandered  over  the  paired  rows.  It  was  a  sad  picture  for  the  eye 
of  a  physician,  these  awkward,  sometimes  misshapen  and  partially 
developed  figures,  the  narrow  heads  and  ugly  faces;  a  beautiful 
sight,  however,  for  the  eye  of  the  Christian  and  the  philanthropist, 
for  as  little  intelligence  as  these  foreheads  showed,  there  was  yet 
a  ray  of  higher  light  and  an  expression  of  touching  helplessness, 
childlike  faith,  and  interior  joy.  I  turned  from  the  children  to  the 
devoted  women  whose  unremitting  care  and  love  had  waked  this 
slumbering  spark,  and  by  years  of  endeavor  had  fanned  it  to  a  tiny 
flame.  How  much  patience  it  must  have  taken  merely  to  train 
these  children  so  that,  at  a  given  signal,  they  all  took  their  places 
and  recited  the  Creed  with  firm  voices  and  clear  enunciation !  A 
tall  Sister,  whose  graceful  figure  and  movements  were  not  entirely 
concealed  by  the  heavy  folds  of  her  habit,  seemed  to  have  the  most 
influence  with  these  dwarfed  beings.  She  controlled  the  whole 
lot,  flitting  here  and  there,  ordering,  directing,  swiftly,  quietly. 
Her  voice,  rising  clear  and  sweet  above  the  uncertain  childish 
quavers,  intoned  the  beautiful  German  church  song,  "'Hier  liegt 
vor  Deiner  Majestat."*  For  a  long  time  I  tried  in  vain  to  get  a 
glimpse  of  the  face  of  the  nun.  Although  she  knelt  very  near  me 
it  was  impossible  to  penetrate  the  screening  veil.  At  last  she 
turned  her  head  in  my  direction,  and  for  a  moment,  a  single  mo- 
ment only,  our  eyes  met. 

I  started,  astonished,  almost  afraid.     Where  had  I  seen  this 
beautiful_,  spiritual  face  before?    The  great  brown  eyes  with  the 


*  Here  lies  before  Thy  Majesty. 


16  SISTER  ANGELA. 

long,  upturning  la&hes  and  the  delicately  marked  eyebrows  ?  Seen 
her  I  had,  that  was  certain,  but  where  and  when? 

"  Who  is  that  ?  "  I  asked,  excitedly,  of  my  companion  kneeling 
beside  me. 

"  Sister  Angela,"  was  the  brief  answer,  conveying  not  the  least 
information  to  me. 

Who  was  Sister  Angela?  What  had  been  her  name  in  the 
world?  These  questions  so  preoccupied  me  that,  to  my  shame,  I 
must  say  I  perceived  very  little  of  the  progress  of  the  holy  sacri- 
fice. 

It  was  not  until  the  child  voices  began,  "  0  Lord,  I  am  not 
worthy,"  that  I  was  roused  from  my  abstraction.  Karely,  or  per- 
haps never,  has  anything  moved  me  so  deeply  as  to  hear  these 
words  from  the  lips  of  these  innocent  ones  in  the  saddest  sense, 
the  little  ones  who  will  always  be  children,  the  poorest  of  the  poor, 
who  could  offer  to  the  Almighty  Creator  nothing  but  a  heart  un- 
touched by  the  breath  of  the  world. 

I  do  not  believe  that  there  was  a  dry  eye,  and  I,  for  my  part, 
was  not  ashamed  of  the  tears  that  unconsciously  ran  down  my 
cheeks^  when  the  children  in  perfect  order,  in  reverent  manner 
and  plainly  awed  by  the  feeling  that  something  great  and  won- 
derful was  about  to  happen  to  them,  approached  Communion. 

Blessed  children,  in  spite  of  their  poverty  of  mind;  blessed 
women,  who,  in  high-hearted  self-forgetting,  have  given  them- 
selves to  the  care  of  these  blighted  blossoms  of  humanity !  Such 
things  are  found  only  where  charity  springs  from  the  living  tree 
of  the  Body  of  Christ  through  the  Holy  Catholic  Church. 

After  Mass  was  over  we  were  allowed  to  follow  the  children 
into  the  refectory,  where,  upon  tables  covered  with  flowers,  their 
breakfast  was  awaiting  them.  Here  the  fifteen-year-old  Emma 
Forster,  my  friend's  sister,  was  presented  to  me.  She  was  a 
physically  well  developed  and  healthy-looking  girl,  on  whose 
broad  shoulders  a  disproportionately  small  head  seemed  to  hold 
itself  somewhat  unsteadily. 

The  child  was  well-behaved  and  affectionate,  though  very  shy, 
and  seemed  much  pleased  with  the  presents  her  brother  had 


A.  JUNGST.  17 

brought  for  her.  I  could  give  her  nothing  just  then,  but  promised 
to  send  her  a  souvenir  for  her  first  Holy  Communion  Da}'^  with 
the  next  mail, 

"  What  ? "  she  asked,  fixing  the  peculiarly  vacant  eyes  upon 
me.    "A  doll?" 

"  Emma !  "  her  brother  protested.     "  You  forget — " 

"  Oh,  yes,"  she  said,  dropping  her  eyes,  repentantly,  and  pull- 
ing at  a  corner  of  her  veil.  "  I  forgot  that  Our  Dear  Lord  came 
to  me  to-day ;  then  one  does  not  have  dolls  any  more.  I  will  ask 
Sister  x\ngela." 

Sister  Angela !  That  was  the  word  that  broke  the  spell  for 
all  of  them,  their  hold  and  guiding  light.  Here  she  had  to  fix  a 
torn  veil  for  a  little  girl,  there  she  had  to  coax  a  poor  boy  who 
refused  to  eat,  now  urge  the  lagging  ones,  then  restrain  the  over- 
hasty  ;  everywhere  adjusting  and  pacifying. 

I  watched  her  movements  with  tense  interest,  turning  over 
and  over  again  the  question,  where  I  had  seen  her  before.  Hugo 
Forster  could  give  me  no  information.  He  knew  the  patient 
teacher  of  his  sister  only  by  her  name  in  religion. 

After  the  breakfast  was  finished  I  asked  the  Superior  for  per- 
mission to  visit  the  living  and  sleeping  rooms  of  the  children, 
which  occupied  an  entire  wing  of  the  building.  My  request  was 
cheerfully  granted,  and  Sister  Angela  was  assigned  as  my  guide. 

It  seemed  to  me  as  if  the  Sister  hesitated  a  little  at  the  words 
of  the  Superior  and  started  to  say  something,  but  then  immedi- 
ately conquered  the  feeling  and  preceded  me  with  bowed  head.  I 
followed  her  through  halls  and  rooms,  astonished  by  the  practical 
and  effective  arrangement  of  the  house,  where  everything,  from 
the  greatest  as  well  as  the  least,  testified  to  the  inventiveness  of 
loving  and  inspired  care.  And  I  had  visited  in  my  time  many 
such  institutions,  for  I  was  interested  in  the  various  phases  of 
mental  disease. 

"  Here  are  my  pets,  the  angels  of  the  house,"  said  Sister  An- 
gela, with  a  mild  smile,  without,  however,  raising  her  eyes  to 
mine,  as  she  opened  the  door  of  a  ward,  where,  under  the  super- 
vision of  two  novices,  there  were  about  ten  children,  between  the 


18  SISTER  ANGELA. 

ages  of  three  and  six  years.  Some  were  in  their  beds,  some  tied  in 
chairs,  miserable,  unhappy  creatures,  frail  and  misformcd  of 
mind  as  well  as  of  body,  whose  utter  helplessness  and  repulsive- 
ness  were  enough  to  fill  the  ordinary  person  with  instinctive  aver- 
sion. 

"  How  is  my  little  Petcrkin  to-day  ?  "  Sister  Angela  asked, 
bending  over  one  of  the  dull-witted  little  creatures. 

At  the  sound  of  her  voice  a  grin  spread  itself  over  the  form- 
less face,  an  inarticulate  grunt  came  from  the  wet-lipped  mouth, 
and  two  arms  ape-like  in  length  were  stretched  out  to  her.  Sister 
Angela  patted  the  child  on  the  head  and  stroked  the  sallow  cheeks 
lovingly.  But  when  she  turned  to  leave  such  a  plaintive  whim- 
pering, ending  in  an  animal-like  howling,  broke  forth  that  I 
stopped,  almost  frightened.  At  the  very  first  sound  the  Sister 
had  turned  and  hurried  back  to  the  little  boy,  who  was  now  strik- 
ing with  hands  and  feet  at  the  novice  in  charge.  Convulsions 
seemed  imminent.    But  Sister  Angela  said,  soothingly : 

"  Be  good,  my  little  boy.  My  little  Peterkin  does  not  have  to 
stay  here.     Sister  Angela  will  take  him." 

As  she  said  this  she  lifted  the  heavy  child  and  rocked  him  in 
her  arms.    Turning  to  me  apologetically,  she  said : 

"  You  will  pardon  me — " 

"  Countess  Herschatz,"  I  cried  out. 

Now,  as  she  had  raised  those  wonderful  brown  eyes,  I  recog- 
nized her,  the  brilliant  Countess  Hermine  Herschatz,  who  a  few 
years  before  had  been  the  most  courted  beauty  of  the  capital. 

"  Countess  Herschatz,"  I  repeated  once  more,  trying  to  hide 
my  emotion. 

"  Oh,  please  do  not  call  me  by  that  name.  Major,"  the  Sister 
said  with  a  trembling  voice.  "  It  is  gone  and  buried  with  all  the 
rest." 

"  But  I  do  not  see ;  I  do  not  understand — " 

"  You  do  not  understand  ?  "  A  deep  red  rose  to  her  cheeks 
and  then  yielded  to  a  deadly  pallor.  "  Ah,  but  you  surely  know 
and  understand  what  brought  me  here.  There,  there,  Peterkin." 
She  soothed  the  boy  again,  for  he,  seeing  himself  unnoticed  for  a 


A.  jiJNGST.  19 

few  moments,  commenced  to  whimper  once  more.  "  Sister  An- 
gela will  play  with  you  in  a  moment.  You  and  Rosa/'  she  mo- 
tioned to  a  crippled  girl,  "  shall  set  ^yp  the  nine-pins  and  Sister 
Angela  will  roll  the  ball." 

Smilingly,  and  with  the  same  inimitable  grace  which  had  been 
her  characteristic  in  society,  she  let  the  now  chuckling  child  slip 
into  a  low  seat,  while  Eosa  ordered  the  nine-pins,  and  in  a  few 
moments  the  children  were  playing  delightedly.  Then  she 
turned  to  me  again. 

"  I  knew  you  at  once,  Major,  and  that  on  this  holy  day,  to 
which  I  have  looked  forward  so  long  and  with  such  deep  joy, 
your  presence  should  bring  back  the  past  is  a  drop  of  bitterness 
that  I  feel  as  part  of  my  deserved  punishment,  for  I  never  can 
atone  enough  for  what  I  did." 

She  pointed  to  the  unfortunate  children  with  her  slim  white 
hand.  "  For  the  life  which  my  frivolity  destroyed  I  try  to  save 
as  many  as  possible  of  these  deserted  and  pitiable  beings.  For 
the  one  soul  that  my  coquetry  ruined  I  try  to  wake  the  slumbering 
soul  in  these.  This  is  my  atonement,  my  penance.  And  now  let 
us  part.  Major.  You  will  find  the  way  to  the  lower  halls  without 
me,  or  else  Sister  Walburga  may  be  your  guide.  To  go  farther 
with  you  now  is  more  than  my  strength  will  allow." 

I  was  too  much  moved  to  answer.  Without  a  word  I  took  the 
hand  she  held  out  and  turned  to  leave  the  room.  At  the  door  I 
paused  for  one  last  look  at  the  noble  figure  bathed  in  the  glow  of 
the  noonday  sun,  the  pale  and  beautiful  face,  and  the  elasped 
hands.  The  door  had  hardly  closed  liehind  me  before  I  heard  the 
sound  of  the  soft  voice  talking  to  the  children  and  the  dishar- 
monic,  gurgling  answers,  and  once  more  I  repeated  to  myself 
with  bated  breath  as  I  had  done  inside,  "  Countess  Hersehatz." 

I  saw  her  again  as  I  had  last  seen  her,  radiant  in  evening 
dress,  the  picture  of  life  and  joy,  her  dance  card  in  one  hand, 
before  her  an  officer  bowing  low: 

"  I  am  afraid  you  are  mistaken,  Baron,"  she  was  saying.  "  The 
second  waltz  belongs  to  Count  Okberg ! " 

"  Pardon  me,"  said  the  Baron,  his  tone  growing  faintly  sharp, 


30  SISTER  ANGELA. 

"  the  second  waltz  belongs  to  me.  It  was  promised  to  me  a  week 
ago  at  the  Austrian  Ambassador's — " 

"  I  do  not  remember,  Baron.     My  card — " 

"  Give  mc  your  card,  Countess;  I — " 

"  How  dare  you  speak  like  that  to  Countess  Herschatz ! " 
came  the  threatening  voice  of  Count  Olsberg,  as  interruption  of 
the  little  passage  between  the  two  foolish  young  people. 

Two  pairs  of  eyes,  dark  with  anger,  poured  their  resentment 
into  each  other  for  a  few  moments;  then  there  were  sharper 
words,  though  so  low  that  the  pulsing  music  of  the  waltz  just  be- 
ginning deadened  them,  and  yet  so  hard  and  metallic  that  I,  who 
stood  close,  shivered  as  at  the  touch  of  cold  metal.  Then  formal 
bows  on  both  sides,  and  the  Countess  floated  off  into  the  waltzing 
maze  with  Count  Olsberg.  Glow  of  lights  and  breath  of  flowers, 
entrancing  sound  and  motion  in  the  glittering  salon,  as  if  never  a 
shadow  darkened  the  earth,  and  no  one  guessed  that  death  was 
sitting  with  them  at  the  silver-heavy  board,  and  that  at  the  bot- 
tom of  all  the  harmony  was  the  strident  discord  of  hate. 

The  next  morning  the  capital  was  shaken  by  an  awful  rumor. 
On  the  Ha  sen  Haide  a  duel  was  said  to  have  been  fought  at  dawn 
between  Count  Olsberg  of  the  Guards,  and  Baron  Hosson  of  the 
Iluzzars,  fifteen  paces,  pistols.  Hubert,  Count  Olsberg,  the  only 
son  of  his  widowed  mother,  was  mortally  wounded,  and  had  died 
a  few  hours  later. 

I  do  not  know  who  it  was  that  told  the  outcome  of  the  duel  to 
Countess  Hermine.  I  only  heard  that  she  became  unconscious 
from  the  shock  and  was  prostrated  by  it  for  a  long  time.  The 
following  winter  I  waited  in  vain  to  see  the  star  of  the  past  season 
rise  again  on  the  social  horizon.  The  Countess  appeared  nowhere. 
If  some  one  happened  to  speak  of  the  beautiful  and  brilliant 
girl,  there  was  a  shrug  of  the  shoulders,  and  it  was  suggested 
that  it  was  no  wonder  the  Countess  avoided  the  capital  where  her 
coquetry  had  caused  so  tragic  a  happening.  The  next  season  she 
would  undoubtedly  return  for  new  triumphs.  But  Countess  Her- 
schatz disappointed  both  her  friends  and  her  enemies,  and  did  not 
come  back  the  next  season,  nor  the  next.     Some  one  said  she  was 


A.  JUNG8T.  21 

living  in  retirement  at  her  brother's  country  seat  in  a  corner  of 
the  province,  mourning  the  defection  of  Baron  Hosson,  whom  she 
had  secretly  loved,  and  who,  after  serving  the  time  of  his  arrest, 
ignored  her  altogether.  Then  even  gossip  forgot  her.  The 
capital,  where  wave  drives  wave,  lives  fast  and  forgets  quickly. 
About  that  time  I  was  transferred,  and  for,  a  long  time  even  I 
had  not  thought  of  the  exciting  episode. 

But  the  threads  of  our  fates  are  curiously  interwoven.  Here, 
in  the  Westphalian  asylum,  I  had  seen  again  the  famous  beauty 
in  the  habit  of  a  humble  religious — she,  the  tenderly  trained,  care- 
fully guarded  and  protected  lady  of  the  great  world,  as  the 
protector  and  teacher  of  children  whose  bodily  and  mental  weak- 
nesses must  offend  the  natural  sense  of  refinement  daily,  hourly, 
whose  sight  must  be  a  constant  torture. 

And  yet,  as  she  appeared  to  me  that  morning,  at  the  head  of 
the  children  whom  she  was  leading  to  the  table  of  Our  Lord,  with 
the  light  of  a  love  greater  even  than  mother  love  in  her  eyes,  she 
seemed  more  beautiful  to  me  and  even  more  happy  as  Sister  An- 
gela than  ever  Countess  Hermine  Herschatz  had  been.  What  the 
one  had  done  wrong  in  the  thoughtlessness  of  youth  the  other  was 
expiating  in  high  and  noble  penance. 

Touched  by  the  thoughts  that  rushed  upon  me,  filled  with  awe 
of  a  religion  which  can  thus  raise  men  above  themselves,  and 
make  even  sin  a  rung  in  the  ladder  reaching  heavenward,  I  went 
slowly  through  the  great  passages  of  the  building.  At  the  door 
of  the  refectory  my  amiable  traveling  companion  met  me,  holding 
the  hand  of  his  little  sister  lovingly, 

"  I  would  like,  Major — but,  for  gracious  sake,"  he  inter- 
rupted  himself,  "  what  has  happened  to  you  ?    How  you  look !  " 

I  passed  my  hand  over  my  forehead  and  said  with  feeble  at- 
tempt at  pleasantry,  "  I  have  seen  ghosts,  no,  rather  good  spirits, 
whose  sight  has  moved  me  more  than  even  I  myself  would  have 
believed.    Sister  Angela — " 

"  Ah, "  Emma  Forster  interrupted,  and  the  lustreless  eyes 
brightened.  "  You  were  up  with  Sister  Angela  where  the  sick 
children  are  ?  " 


22  SISTER  ANGELA. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  I  answered  the  eager  little  questioner. 

"  And  did  she  tell  you  the  sad  tale  about  the  little  red  hen  and 
the  cock  ?  Oh,  when  Sister  Angela  tells  it  to  us  in  the  evenings  we 
all  have  to  cry."  And  even  at  the  thought  the  child's  eyes  began 
to  fill  with  tears.  "  But  it  is  even  nicer,"  she  went  on,  confidingly 
coming  closer  to  me,  "  when  Sister  Angela  tells  us  of  Christmas 
and  of  the  little  Jesus  and  His  dear  Mother,  and  of  the  Saviour 
who  for  love  of  us — " 

The  little  girl  stopped.  She  had  evidently  lost  the  thread,  but 
after  a  short  and  distressed  silence  she  looked  up  at  me  so  hap- 
pily, so  innocently,  and  so  full  of  faith,  that  I  felt  more  con- 
vinced than  ever  that  the  Lord  was  pleased  to  take  up  His  abode  in 
this  heart,  even  in  spite  of  the  lacking  gifts  of  the  intellect* 

"  You  love  Sister  Angela  very  much,  do  you  ?  " 

"  We  love  her,  oh^  so  much,  so  much ! "  And  the  girl,  so  shy 
and  limited  in  words,  became  talkative  in  the  praise  of  her  beloved 
teacher  and  friend. 

Sister  Angela  and  Signora  Valdina !  The  beginning  of  their 
lives  had  been  so  much  alike,  and  how  different  was  the  conclu- 
sion to  be !  I  asked  the  Superior  about  the  singer,  and  the  an- 
swer was,  "  Incurable." 

Shortly  after  noon  I  bade  farewell  to  Wellendorf.  When  I 
was  seated  in  the  wagon  and  waving  good-by  to  my  companion, 
who  remained,  and  to  whom  I  really  owed  this  singular  meeting, 
I  took  in  once  more  the  high  walls,  the  endless  seeming  rows  of 
windows,  the  tower  of  the  church,  and  the  cemetery  of  the  insti- 
tution climbing  up  the  side  of  the  hill.  Up  behind  those  walls 
Sister  Angela  worked  and  atoned,  and  down  there  in  the  ceme- 
tery she  would  rest  in  the  shadow  of  the  cross.  Strange  trans- 
formations of  fate!  Wonderful  transmutation  of  a  curse  into 
blessing ! 

A  blessing,  aye,  the  highest  blessing  of  heaven,  the  once 
thoughtless  and  frivolously  wasted  life  of  Countess  Hermine 
Herschatz  has  become  for  many,  and  I  myself  bless  even  now  the 
hour  in  which  the  railroad  accident  sent  me,  instead  ©f  to  Han- 
over and  Mascagni's  opera,  to  Wellendorf  and  the  Insane  Hospital. 


OTTO   VON    SCHACHING* 

(Dr.  V.  M.  Otto   Denk.) 

Dr.  Victor  Martin  Otto  Denk  took  his  pen  name  "  Otto  von 
Schaching "  from  his  native  town,  Schaching,  in  Lower  Bavaria. 
He  was  born  on  June  23,  1853.  After  he  had  received  the 
preparatory  education  customary  in  Germany,  he  went  to  the 
University  and  studied  history  and  philology.  After  that  he  spent 
many  years  in  England,  France,  Italy,  and  Spain.  He  began 
his    literary    career    at  an    early    age,    being    but    seventeen    when 


his  first  article  was  published.  His  work  entitled,  "  Der  Materialis- 
mus  in  der  Erziebung  und  die  Revolution,"  published  in  1874,  was 
widely  read  both  by  Catholics  and  Protestants.  His  real  literary 
reputation,  however,  begins  early  in  the  nineties,  when  he  turned  his 
attention  to  the  writing  of  tales  of  village  life.  In  this  field  he  won 
a  pronounced  success  with  his  widely  read  and  highly  praised  novel 
"  Stasi,"  which  appeared  in  1891.  The  critics  were  unanimous  in 
their  acknowledgment  of  the  great  importance  of  this  book,  and 
placed  its  author  among  the  foremost  novelists  of  the  present  time, 
"  Stasi "  was  followed  in  rapid  succession  by  a  long  list  of  novels  and 
romances,  in  which  Schaching  takes  his  local  color  from  his  native 
Bavaria,  Among  these  are :  "  Die  Teufelsgretl."  "  Die  Gaister- 
tonne  von  Heilsberg,"  "  Bayerntreue."  "  Waldesrauschen,"  and  many 
others,  in  ail  these  works  the  critics  praise  the  author's  rare  art  of 
sstting  forth  realistically  the  characters  and  scenes  of  his  stories. 
Lately  he  has  experimented  with  the  historical  novel,  and  "  Widu- 
kind,  the  Saxon  Hero,"'  shows  his  gifts  in  this  direction.  He  has 
also  won  for  himself  an  enviable  reputation  as  a  writer  of  works 
dealing  with  the  history  of  education  and  literature. 

Dr.  Denk  lives  in   Regensburg  and  is  the  editor  of  the  DcuiscJicr 
HaiisscJiatz,  a  Catholic  Magazine  published  in  that  city. 


Hfra, 

A  Tyeolese  Tale  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

BY   OTTO   VON   SCHACHING. 

The  pale  January  sun  sent  its  slanting  rays  through  the  low 
windows  of  the  great  farmhouse  at  Wiedeek,  that  stood  looking 
down  from  the  free  heights  of  the  Volderberg  into  the  Unterinn- 
thal.  The  men  and  women  servants  of  the  place  were  gathered 
around  the  big  oak  table  in  the  living-room,  and  were  just  ready 
to  rise  from  their  noonday  meal. 

At  a  side  table  the  farmer  sat  by  himself,  and  meditatively 
nibbled  at  a  crisp  noodle.  He  was  a  big  man,  of  some  fifty-odd 
years,  whose  sharp-cut  features  seemed  darkened  by  sullen  shad- 
ows. As  his  people  arose  for  the  customary  grace  after  meals, 
he,  too,  stood.  The  head  servant  led  the  prayer,  and  the  others 
responded.  Just  as  the  response  chorused  through  the  room, 
"  Forgive  us  our  trespasses,  as  we  forgive  those  who  trespass 
against  us,"  the  door  was  opened,  and  a  tall,  lean  man  with  a 
pedler's  pack  on  his  back  came  in.  He  took  off  his  broad-brimmed 
hat,  and  joined  in  the  prayers  at  once. 

"  God  be  with  you  all  here !  "  said  the  newcomer,  with  that 
pleasant  heartiness  that  tells  of  long  acquaintance. 

The  servants  answered  each  after  his  own  manner,  and  then 
went  out  to  their  several  occupations,  only  the  farmer  himself 
remaining. 

"Well,  and  how  is  everything  up  here?"  the  pedler  began, 
setting  his  pack  down  on  a  chair.  "  It  is  a  goodly  time  since  we 
have  seen  each  other — half  a  year." 

"H'm,  something  like  that,"  said  the  farmer,  while  his  eyes 

85 


26  AFRA. 

ran  questioningly  up  and  down  the  pack.  "Dost  bring  some- 
thing new,  Hergottskraemer ?*     Where  are  you  from,  to-day?" 

"  From  the  valley — from  Hall.  The  road  was  very  bad  from 
Telfels  up.     Whore  is  the  goodwife?  "  asked  the  trader. 

"  She  has  gone  to  Hall,  on  a  pilgrimage,"  the  farmer  grunted. 
"  Woman  fancies — let  me  see  what  there  is  in  the  pack,"  he 
added,  hurriedly,  as  if  to  turn  the  conversation  into  other  chan- 
nels. 

The  pedler  undid  the  wrappings  of  unbleached  linen  which 
covered  his  pack.  Then  he  spread  a  bright  array  of  holy  pictures 
on  the  table.  Among  them  were  a  great  number  of  pictures  of 
the  Sacred  Heart,  which  were  particularly  popular  since  the  Tyrol 
had  been  put  under  the  special  protection  of  the  Sacred  Heart  of 
Jesus,  in  the  year  of  1796,  when  the  French  invasion  threatened 
by  way  of  Italy.  Nothing,  however,  seemed  to  please  the  farmer, 
who  looked  but  hastily  and  turned  up  his  nose. 

"  That  will  do,"  he  said.     "  I  do  not  want  to  see  any  more." 

"  Wait  a  little,"  said  the  trader.  "  I  have  something  that 
might  please  thee.  See ! "  And  he  held  up  at  arm's  length  a 
beautiful  group  carved  out  of  pearwood.  It  represented  St. 
George,  high  on  his  horse  above  the  dragon,  into  whose  wide-open 
mouth  his  spear  was  thrust.  "  Hast  ever  seen  him  made  so  well  ? 
I  never  did,"  the  pedler  said,  while  his  eyes  shone  with  the  light  of 
appreciation. 

The  farmer  cocked  his  head  on  one  side,  and  looked  at  the 
carved  gem  which  the  trader  held  up  before  him.  The  lines  in  his 
deeply  marked  face  grew  deeper,  and  his  expression  became  almost 
evil  in  its  bitterness.  He  pressed  his  lips  together  and  turned 
away.     But  the  trader  continued  to  praise  the  carving : 

"  Just  look  at  the  horse.  Is  it  not  as  though  it  would  come  to 
life  every  moment?  How  can  any  one  carve  like  that?  Dost 
know  what  it's  worth?     Just  guess." 

The  farmer  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  H'm,  about  three 
gulden." 

•Hergottskraemer,  literally  translated,  "  Our  Lord's  trader."  It  is  the  col- 
loquial term  for  a  seller  of  sacred  pictures,  images,  and  so  on. 


OTTO    VON   8CH ACHING.  27 

Then  the  trader  laughed  as  if  the  farmer's  answer  were  the 
best  joke  possible. 

"  There,  one  can  see  what  a  farmer  knows  of  art."  And  he 
placed  the  carving  back  on  the  table.  "  Let  me  tell  thee,  a  great 
gentleman  of  Vienna  has  offered  fifty  golden  gulden  for  it,  but 
the  carver  said  that  he  would  not  sell  this  carving  for  a  hundred." 

"  H'm,"  sneered  the  farmer,  "  he  must  be  a  fool." 

The  trader  did  not  answer  at  once,  then  he  spoke,  in  a  raised 
and  solemn  voice: 

"  He  must  be  a  fool,  eh  ?  So  be  it ;  for  dost  know,  he  is  thy 
own  son  ?  " 

The  farmer  stood  as  if  struck  with  palsy,  stirring  neither  hand 
nor  foot,  but  his  eyes  glittered  ominously.  Then  he  folded  his 
arms,  and  said,  in  a  strange,  hollow-sounding  voice : 

"  So,  that's  where  the  thing  is  from.  And  what  does  the  whole 
farce  mean  ?  " 

"  Farce  ?  There  is  no  farce  here,  my  good  man,"  answered 
the  trader.  "  Eight  days  ago  I  was  with  Franz,  thy  son.  He 
gave  me  this  carving  to  give  to  his  father,  because  his  father's  name 
is  George,  too,  he  said,  and  he  asked  that  his  father  should  kindly 
take  it.  That's  what  he  said — what  Franz  said.  And  he  has  sent 
thee  something  more,  and  I  brought  it  right  along."  And,  before 
the  farmer  could  recover  from  his  astonishment,  the  trader  had 
gone  out  of  the  door.  When  he  came  back  in  a  few  moments,  he 
was  accompanied  by  a  pale  young  woman,  rather  tall  than  short. 
In  her  clear-cut  features  there  was  a  certain  distinction.  Her  blue, 
inscrutable-looking  eyes  were  in  striking  yet  most  fascinating  con- 
trast to  her  deep  black  hair,  that  waved  around  the  high  white 
forehead  and  fine  temples.  Her  costume  was  that  of  the  women 
of  the  Pusterthal  at  that  time. 

As  she  entered  the  room  she  greeted  the  farmer  in  a  modest 
and  quiet  way,  while  her  eyes  were  fixed,  half-questioningly,  half- 
shyly,  upon  the  owner  of  Wiedeck.  He  on  his  part  was  so  aston- 
ished at  her  appearance,  that  he  almost  forgot  the  thanks  for  her 
greeting  which  custom  demanded. 

"  Whom  dost  bring  me  here  ?  "  he  asked  the  trader. 


•  28  APkA. 

"  Whom  do  I  bring,  farmer  ?  Do  not  pretend  like  that.  Hast 
not  guessed  who  it  is — Franz's  wife  ?  " 

"  Wh — wh — who  ?  What  ?  "  stammered  the  farmer,  and  stared 
at  the  young  woman's  face. 

She,  however,  stood  his  gaze  without  a  sign  of  embarrassment, 
6nd  then  she  took  two  or  three  steps  toward  him. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  with  the  same  cahn  with  which  she  had 
greeted  the  master  on  entering,  "  I  am  Afra,  thy  daughter-in-law. 
A  few  days  ago,  Sarnerquiria,  here,"  she  made  a  gesture  toward 
the  pedler,  "  came  to  us,  and  asked  my  husband  had  he  a  message 
for  his  father.  Sarnerquiria  was  going  into  the  Unterinnthal  and 
around  Hall  to  trade,  and  then  it  might  happen  that  he  would  come 
up  to  the  Wiedeck  farm,  too.  Then  all  at  once  the  thought  came 
to  me :  *  Afra,  go  along  with  him,  and  take  Franz's  finest  piece  of 
art  as  an  offering  to  father.'  Franz  himself  could  not  come  be- 
cause he  is  sick  just  now.  And  now,  father-in-law,  let  me  not  go 
without  peace  and  forgiveness  for  Franz  and  me." 

Her  voice  shook,  tears  quivered  on  her  lashes,  and  her  hands 
timidly  clasped  the  hard  right  fist  of  the  farmer.  But  he  grabbed 
his  hand  away,  and  turned  his  back  on  her. 

"  Thou  hast  made  a  vain  journey,"  he  said,  harshly.  "  With 
me  there  is  no  forgiving.  It  is  thy  fault  that  our  son  married 
against  our  will.  Thou  didst  turn  his  head.  Thou  canst  tell 
him  that  between  him  and  me  all  is  over.  So,  and  now  see  that 
thou  findest  the  way  he  showed,"  pointing  to  the  picture-seller, 
"  back  again.     I  have  finished." 

"  Oh,  go  along,  farmer,"  said  the  image-seller  now,  persuad- 
ingly.  "  Was  it  a  crime  that  Franz  married  Afra  against  thy 
will?  She  is  as  good  as  gold.  Not  an  ill  word  could  be  said 
about  her.  And  even  if  her  father  has  not  a  stockingful  of  gold 
put  away  like  many  a  farmer,  yet  all  the  people  respect  him  in  the 
country  around  because  of  his  art.  Dost  not  need  be  ashamed  of 
her  for  a  daughter-in-law.  See,  just  as  I  came  into  the  room, 
the  people  were  praying,  *  Forgive  us  our  trespasses,  as  we  forgive 
those  who — '  " 

"  Stop  talking  stupid  stuff.     When  I  want  to  hear  preaching, 


OTTO    VON   8CH ACHING.  39- 

I  can  go  to  church  and  hear  the  priest.  Do  you  understand? 
Rather  take  this  person  and  go  thy  way.     'Twill  please  me  better." 

The  pedler  turned  to  go,  but  Afra,  despite  the  farmer's  brutal 
words,  began  once  more : 

"  Father-in-law—" 

"  Father-in-law  ?  Father-in-law  nothing.  Now,  I  am  tired 
of  this.  Get  out  of  my  sight  at  once,  or  my  patience  will  be  at  an 
end!" 

In  the  mean  time  the  pedler  had  packed  up  his  things,  leaving 
only  the  St.  George  group  untouched.  Now  he  nodded  to  Afra 
as  a  sign  that  he  was  ready  to  go.  She  hesitated  a  moment  to 
see  whether  she  should  follow  or  wait  and  stay.  Then  she  said, 
in  a  trembling  voice: 

"  Everything  has  its  limits.  Thou  dost  order  me  out.  I  go. 
But  the  time  may  come  when  thou'lt  ask  my  forgiveness.  God 
keep  you !  "     And  she  turned  quickly  away. 

"  That's  right,  Afra.  'Twas  a  good  dressing  for  the  proud 
old  fellow.     I  am  glad." 

The  farmer  himself  remained  behind,  his  face  red  with  anger. 
Then  his  gaze  fell  upon  the  carving  of  the  St.  George  which  the 
trader  had  left.  With  an  oath  he  took  it  and  raised  his  arm  as 
if  to  dash  the  exquisite  bit  of  work  to  pieces — anything  to  satisfy 
the  bitter  feeling  of  revenge  that  filled  him.  Then  his  hand  sank 
back  again.  If  it  had  been  another  saint,  perhaps  even  his  sense  of 
sacrilege  might  not  have  conquered  his  rage;  but  his  own  patron 
saint !     He  placed  the  group  back  on  the  table. 

4:  ^  4:  *  :4c 

A  little  way  Afra  and  Sarnerquiria,  as  was  the  pedler's  name, 
went  along  together.  Then  they  parted.  The  trader  went  up 
farther  into  the  hills  to  sell  his  wares  to  the  pious  peasants,  while 
Afra  went  down  into  the  valley  toward  Innsbruck.  In  that  direc- 
tion, behind  the  frozen,  snow-covered,  saw-like  points  of  the 
Salstein  and  the  Salzberg,  was  her  home. 

It  was  late  in  the  day,  and  the  sun  was  hidden  behind  gray  and 
wintry  clouds,  when  the  goodwife  of  the  Wiedeck  farm  returned 
from  her  pilgrimage  near  Hall,  where  she  had  been  to  lay  the  griefs 


30  AFRA. 

of  her  mother  heart  before  the  Mother  of  God.  Since  her  son  had 
married  the  daughter  of  the  poor  sculptor  down  in  the  Puster- 
thal,  peace  had  fled  from  Wiedeck.  She  herself  had  forgiven  them 
long  since,  but  the  father  seemed  to  get  harder  every  day.  The 
last  six  months  had  been  beyond  all  endurance. 

"Art  here,  Leni?  I  was  beginning  to  think  thou  wast  not 
coming  back  to  Wiedeck."  Thus  the  farmer  greeted  his  goodwife. 
There  was  a  certain  sneer  in  his  voice,  but  the  wife,  a  tall  person 
with  a  sharp-cut  chin  that  showed  a  mind  of  her  own,  was  not  in 
the  right  mood  for  such  a  greeting. 

"  'Twould  have  been  more  sensible  to  have  stayed  away,"  she 
said,  in  a  hurt  tone,  laying  her  rosary  and  prayer-book  on  the 
window-shelf,  and  taking  off  her  head-scarf.  "  I  go  on  a  pil- 
grimage to  pray  that  there  may  be  an  end  of  this  trouble,  and 
while  I  am  gone  thou  dost  spoil  everything  again  with  thy  ungodly 
temper.  I  believe  that  it  was  Our  Lady  herself  who  sent  Afra 
into  our  house  to-day  that  there  might  be  peace  here  once  more." 

The  farmer  looked  at  her  in  utter  astonishment,  but  did  not 
speak. 

"  Yes,  just  look  at  me.  I  have  heard  all  about  thy  senseless 
temper.     Sarnerquiria  met  me,  and  told  me  everything." 

"  Then  I  do  not  have  to  tell  thee  again,"  the  farmer  said, 
dryly,  and  left  the  room  to  escape  the  gathering  storm.  But  before 
he  could  close  the  door  he  heard  his  wife's  plaint : 

"  If  it  goes  on  like  this,  I  shall  leave,  too." 

But  he  had  heard  this  for  weeks,  once  at  least  every  day.  So 
he  was  used  to  it.  The  next  few  days  brought  no  betterment  in 
the  relationship  of  the  couple,  rather  the  contrary.  The  goodwife 
could  not  banish  from  her  mind  the  reflection  of  how  well  every- 
thing would  have  been  if  her  husband  had  been  kind  to  Afra, 
of  whom,  after  all,  she  had  heard  nothing  but  what  was  good. 

Then  it  happened  one  day  that  a  religious  from  Hall,  a  Fran- 
ciscan Father,  stopped  at  the  Wiedeck  farm.  He  had  been  up  in 
the  mountains  visiting  a  sick  relative. 

"  And  is  everything  well  with  all  here  ?  "  he  asked  of  the  good- 
wife. 


OTTO   VON  SCH ACHING.  31 

"  Oh,  no,  Father,"  she  answered,  with  a  sigh,  "  It  is  not  well 
at  all.  Sit  down,  your  reverence,  or  else  the  sleep  will  be  carried 
out  of  the  room."  And  she  wiped  the  top  of  a  chair  with  a  corner 
of  her  apron,  though  there  was  not  a  speck  of  dust  anywhere.  In 
the  mean  time  the  farmer  entered,  too,  and  greeted  the  priest 
respectfully. 

"  Now,  then,  my  good  friend,"  began  the  priest,  addressing  the 
wife,  "  what  is  the  trouble  ?  According  to  your  pleasant  face,  you 
are  most  healthy." 

The  goodwife  stroked  her  shoulder-cloth  nervously. 

"  Ah,  your  reverence,  the  trouble  with  us  is  altogether  differ- 
ent. There  is  no  living  here  since  Franz — "  Then  her  voice 
broke. 

"  Did  Franz  die  ?  "  asked  Father  Cyprian,  kindly. 

"  Die !  "  said  the  farmer,  now.  "  No ;  he  did  not  die.  But  as 
good  as  that.  He  married,  and  he  married  against  our  wishes. 
And  that  is  trouble  enough." 

"  So,  so,"  said  Father  Cyprian,  then,  slowly.  "  I  have  not 
heard  anything  of  this,  at  all.     How  did  it  happen,  anyway  ?  " 

"  H'm,"  began  the  farmer,  "  it  is  soon  told.  You  must  know, 
your  reverence,  that  even  as  a  boy  Franz  had  a  turn  for  whittling 
and  carving  figures.  It  was  wonderful  how  natural  he  could  make 
everything.  And,  as  it  often  happens  hereabouts,  a  strange  gentle- 
man came  up  here  in  the  summer-time  and  went  by  our  house,  one 
day.  Of  course,  Franz  was  sitting  out  on  the  bench  and  whit- 
tling. The  gentleman  stopped  and  looked  at  the  boy,  and  then  he 
said  to  me,  *  There's  something  in  that  lad.  He  will  be  an  artist 
some  day,  if  he  is  sent  to  study.'  But  I  did  not  think  much  about 
it,  for  these  city  gentlemen  can  talk  a  lot  in  a  lifetime  without 
saying  much.  But  the  boy  begged  and  teased  after  that  to  be  sent 
away.  I  for  my  part  did  not  want  to  help  him  along  in  such  non- 
sense, but  my  wife  began  to  beg  and  plague,  too,  and  at  last,  like 
a  good-natured  stupid,  I  gave  way  as  I  always  do,  and  sent  Franz  to 
St.  Lorenzen  to  learn  with  old  Nuwal.  He  was  recommended  to 
me  as  a  very  good  sculptor  and  teacher.  Franz  was  sixteen  years 
old  then.     He  did  learn  something  worth  while,  that  is  true. 


32  AFRA. 

But  now  comes  the  main  part.  After  three  years  the  boy  came 
home.  It  wasn't  long  before  I  saw  that  something  was  wrong. 
And  then,  to  make  the  story  short,  I  found  that  he  had  just  lost 
his  head  about  Afra,  the  old  sculptor's  daughter.  He  wanted  to 
marry  her,  and  he  wouldn't  listen  to  even  a  word  about  any  one 
else.  There,  what  do  you  think,  your  reverence?  All  my  talk 
and  all  my  warnings  were  wasted  on  that  boy.  It  was  just  as  if 
he  were  bewitched.  Afterwhilc,  the  whole  thing  seemed  too  silly 
to  me,  and  then  I  said  to  him :  '  Franz,  either  thou  dost  obey  me, 
or  thou  canst  take  bag  and  baggage  and  go  out  of  my  house.' 
And  what  do  you  think  that  stubborn-headed  lad  did  ?  He  went 
away  into  Italy,  down  to  Eome,  until  he  was  of  age.  And  then, 
a  half  a  year  ago,  he  came  back,  and  married  that  girl.  Now  he 
is  living  in  Lorenzen  as  a  carver  and  sculptor,  and  into  my  house 
he  can  not  come." 

"  H'm,"  said  Father  Cyprian,  and  nodded  his  head  reflectively, 
"  this  is  indeed  a  serious  story.  But  see  now,  farmer,  Franz  is, 
after  all,  your  own  flesh  and  blood ;  and,  even  if  he  was  wanting  in 
obedience  to  his  parents,  you  must  not  close  the  door  of  your  house 
against  him.     That  is  unchristian — " 

"  That's  what  I  am  always  saying,"  the  goodwife  hastened  to 
put  in. 

"  And,  then,  what  is  there  about  his  wife  that  you  do  not  like 
her?  Is  she  a  good  woman?  If  she  is,  I  do  not  know  why  you 
should  not  acknowledge  her  as  your  daughter-in-law." 

"  Dost  hear,  George  ?  Do  I  not  always  say  so  ?  "  the  goodwife 
said  to  her  husband.     "  Your  reverence,  now  listen  to  me." 

And  then  she  began  and  told  her  side  of  the  story.  For  a  long 
time  she,  too,  was  angry  with  the  lad,  but  now  she  had  forgiven 
him  and  his  wife.  Then  she  began  to  tell  of  Afra's  visit,  and  of 
the  pedler's  praises  of  the  young  woman.  Then  she  suddenly  left 
the  room,  coming  back  in  a  few  moments  with  an  article  that  she 
showed  the  guest,  with  the  words : 

"  See,  your  reverence !  This  is  something  that  Franz  carved ! 
What  do  you  think  of  it?" 

Father  Cyprian  arose  from  his  chair  and  walked  to  the  win- 


OTTO   VON  SCHACHING.  83 

dow,  so  as  to  have  a  better  light  on  the  carved  St.  George  group. 
For  a  few  moments  he  was  silent,  and  then  his  features  lit  up  with 
enthusiasm.  Then  suddenly  he  called  out :  "  Wonderful !  Beauti- 
ful !  Why,  this  is  a  work  of  art !  Do  you  know  what,  farmer  ? 
Your  son  is  an  artist,  whom  Our  Lord  has  blessed  with  a  great  gift, 
and  you  may  well  be  proud  of  him.  'Twould  be  a  sin  and  a  shame 
to  hold  him  in  scorn  any  longer." 

"  That's  M^hat  I  always  say,"  the  goodwife  put  in  again,  and 
then  she  began  to  sob  with  mingled  grief  and  delight. 

The  farmer  stood  as  if  turned  to  stone,  and  said  never  a  word, 
but  just  the  same  his  eyes  brightened,  as  if  with  a  secret  pleasure, 
at  the  praise  which  Father  Cyprian  gave  his  son's  work. 

"  I'll  tell  you  what,"  Father  Cyprian  said,  then,  taking  up  the 
group  once  more.  "  Let  me  take  this  carving  along  with  me,  and 
show  it  to  our  Father  Superior.  We  need  several  large  statues 
for  our  church,  and  Franz  shall  make  them  for  us.  I  will  get  him 
the  commission.  But,  farmer,  you  must  give  up  these  bickerings. 
Your  son  holds  out  his  hands,  asking  forgiveness  and  peace.  And, 
then,  it  is  your  duty  to  put  aside  hate  and  bitterness.  Think  of 
what  Our  Lord  Jesus  Christ  said  to  Peter,  when  asked  how  many 
times  we  should  forgive  our  fellow  men:  'Seventy  times  seven.* 
Think,  also,  of  the  parable  of  the  master  and  the  servants,  and 
how  the  master  treated  the  servant  who  was  hard  toward  his  fellow- 
servant  who  was  in  his  debt.  And  now,  God  keep  you  all !  He 
will  find  the  way  to  set  everything  right." 

Then,  slipping  the  carving  under  his  cloak,  the  son  of  St. 
Francis  went  on  his  way. 

>!:  N<  iH  4<  4i 

It  was  toward  the  end  of  March.  A  wondrous  light  and  life 
flooded  the  young  earth,  for  Spring  had  assumed  her  sway  over 
the  land  of  Tyrol,  and  the  warm  breath  of  the  south  wind  had 
melted  the  snow  and  ice  from  the  mountain  sides  and  set  free  the 
streams  in  the  valleys.  Fresh,  soft  greens  and  many-hued  blooms 
filled  the  eye  with  delight  and  the  nostrils  with  sweetness. 

In  front  of  a  little  brown-shingled  house  in  St.  Lorenzen,  in 
the  lovely  Pusterthal,  a  finch  sang  its  gay  song  hidden  in  the 


34  AFRA. 

white  and  pink  fragrance  of  a  blossom-covered  apple-tree.  His 
song  along  with  the  golden  sunshine  streamed  into  the  open  win- 
dow of  a  modest  little  room.  Here,  among  finished  and  half- 
finished  figures  and  pieces  of  carving  and  new  designs,  a  young 
man,  chisel  in  hand,  was  working  away  at  a  block,  bringing  out 
more  and  more  distinctly  at  every  stroke  the  outlines  of  a  human 
figure.  The  young  artist  was  Franz  Trauner,  the  son  of  the  owner 
of  the  Wiedeck  farm.  His  young  wife  Afra  sat  near  him,  her 
fine  face  a  little  paler  than  usual.  Lines  of  sorrow  and  sadness 
were  about  her  mouth.  Her  hands,  though  resting  idly  in  her  lap, 
held  some  knitting.  She  sighed  deeply,  and  her  husband  paused 
in  his  work  and  turned  to  her. 

"  Console  thyself,  Afra,"  he  said,  and  gently  stroked  her  sof  ( 
hair.  "  Death  must  come  to  us  all,  and  we  can  do  nothing  but 
accept  it." 

"  That  is  true ;  but  father  might  perhaps  have  lived  longer, 
if — "  She  stopped,  overcome  by  her  emotions,  and  Franz  under- 
stood what  she  had  meant  to  say. 

Eight  days  before,  the  old  artist  Nuwal,  her  father  and  Franz's 
teacher,  had  died.  He  had  not  been  well  for  a  long  time,  but, 
after  the  return  of  his  daughter  from  the  Wiedeck  farm,  he  had 
failed  rapidly.  Secret  grief  and  worry  about  the  possible  future 
of  his  only  child  filled  his  heart  and  sapped  the  little  strength 
left  him.  A  single  gleam  of  pleasure  had  come  through  the 
gloom  of  the  small  remaining  margin  of  his  life,  in  the  honor- 
able and  flattering  commission  given  to  his  pupil  and  son-in- 
law  by  the  Franciscans  of  Hall  for  the  statues  of  the  Twelve 
Apostles. 

And  Franz's  work-loving  hand  was  even  now  busy  at  the  execu- 
tion of  the  commission.  The  first  figure  of  the  Chief  of  the 
Apostles  was  growing  out  of  the  block,  under  his  touch.  He  was 
just  about  to  begin  his  interrupted  work  again,  when  the  face  of 
Sarnerquiria,  the  picture-pedler,  whose  house  was  right  near  the 
Nuwal  house,  appeared  at  the  window. 

"  Trauner,"  he  said,  "  hast  heard  the  news  ?  " 

"What  news?  "  asked  Franz,  raising  his  curly  head. 


OTTO   VON  8CHACHING.  85 

"  To-morrow  the  militia  of  Lorenzen  are  going  out  against  the 
enemy,  who  is  before  Schabs  even  now.  Brother-heart,  let  the 
French  take  care !     My  rifle  is  in  order  already." 

With  that  he  vanished. 

Franz  chiseled  away  calmly,  talking  with  his  wife  about  the 
course  of  events  the  while.  Since  the  24th  of  March  of  that 
year  a  mighty  gathering  of  fighters  had  filled  the  valleys  of  the 
Tyrol.  The  militia  was  preparing  to  defend  the  land  against  the 
French  troops  threatening  from  the  South.  From  the  hills 
the  signal-fires  flamed,  and  in  the  villages  the  alarm-bells  were 
calling  the  able-bodied  men  to  the  defense.  And  from  all  sides 
the  brave  Tyrolese  responded  to  the  summons.  Clergymen, 
noblemen,  merchants,  citizens,  peasants,  and  laborers,  armed  with 
every  kind  of  weapon  obtainable,  gathered  in  the  meeting-places. 
Even  the  women  forgot  the  traditional  weakness  of  their  sex,  and 
went  out  heroically  to  help  the  fatherland.  An  implicit  faith  in 
the  covenant  which  the  people  of  Tyrol  had  made  with  the  Sacred 
Heart  of  Jesus  in  the  previous  year  filled  the  souls  of  all,  and  gave 
courage  to  the  weak  and  daring  to  the  strong. 

It  was  on  the  2d  of  April,  on  the  so-called  Black,  or  Passion, 
Sunday.  Near  Spinges,  where  the  vine-covered  lower  heights  rise 
to  the  points  of  Eisak,  the  yeomanry  attacked  the  French  under 
General  Joubert.  From  nine  o'clock  in  the  morning  until  sunset 
the  bloody  and  unequal  fray  raged  around  the  houses,  over  the 
meads,  and  in  the  woods  of  Spinges.  The  rifles,  scythes,  and 
pitchforks  of  the  Tyrolese  peasants  made  sad  havoc  among  the 
enemy,  though  the  French  greatly  outnumbered  the  natives.  But 
the  defenders,  too,  suffered  many  and  terrible  losses.  Here  at  one 
side  lay  a  loyal  hero,  the  Tyrolese  Winkelried,  the  scythemaker 
Keinisch  of  Volders.  He  was  pierced  with  eleven  bayonet  wounds, 
and  around  him  lay  fifteen  French  soldiers,  whom  the  great  fighter 
had  slain  with  his  mighty  bludgeon  before  he  fell  himself.  Not  a 
hundred  feet  away  lay  another  brave  man,  his  breast  pierced  with 
French  lead.  Many  a  one  knew  and  loved  him  in  the  Tyrolese 
land.  Over  at  the  forest  edge  the  white  and  green  flag  of  the 
company,  with  which  he  had  gone  forth  merrily  to  the  fight  the 


36  AFRA. 

day  before,  was  gaily  fluttering  in  the  wind.  But  he  lay  there, 
cold  and  dead,  the  picture  and  image  pedler,  Sarnerquiria. 

Franz  Trauner  could  not  bring  himself  to  stay  away  when  the 
fight  for  home  and  country  was  being  waged  near  him.  ^loreover, 
his  hand  was  as  quick  with  the  rifle  as  with  the  chisel.  To  be  sure, 
Afra  was  mortally  frightened  when  he  spoke  of  going.  But  all  her 
entreaties  to  induce  him  to  change  his  mind  were  in  vain.  Then 
she  said  to  him,  "  Well,  then,  if  you  go,  I  go  too."  And  the  brave 
young  woman  kept  her  word.  As  the  fight  progressed  her  courage 
and  calmness  seemed  to  increase  rather  than  to  leave  her.  For 
hours  she  had  stood  beside  her  husband,  behind  a  protecting  boul- 
der, loading  his  two  rifles  with  practised  hand,  he  firing  one  while 
she  loaded  the  other.  Many  a  shot  came  hissing  over  the  two  or 
rebounded  from  the  rocks  as  a  little  message  from  the  enemy,  but 
so  far  neither  had  suffered  any  harm. 

Franz  had  just  taken  the  loaded  rifle  out  of  Afra's  hand.  His 
sharp  eyes  were  trying  to  pierce  the  thick  powder-smoke  that  hung 
over  the  enemy's  ditches.  In  the  mean  time  Afra  was  preparing 
the  second  rifle.  She  poured  powder  out  of  the  horn  into  the 
barrel,  put  the  ball  and  wad  on  top,  and  rammed  the  whole  down 
with  the  rod.  While  thus  occupied,  her  chance  gaze  ran  along  the 
edge  of  the  forest.  Her  features  stiffened  in  sudden  fright,  her 
eyes  opened  wide,  and  her  whole  body  shook. 

"  Franz,  Franz  !  "  she  called,  shrilly.  "  Look  there  !  Look, 
look !     Come  quick  !     Yes,  yes,  it  is  he  !  " 

And  even  while  she  was  saying  these  words  she,  scorning  the 
danger,  ran  out  into  the  open  field.  There  stood  a  Tyrolese  peasant 
in  the  costume  of  the  Unterinnthal.  The  poor  man  was  hard  put 
against  three  French  grenadiers,  who  were  making  for  him  with 
their  bayonets.  To  be  sure,  he  disabled  and  knocked  down  one 
with  a  thundering  blow  of  his  rifle-butt.  For  that,  however,  the 
other  two  knocked  him  down.  With  the  strength  of  despair,  he 
grabbed  the  bayonet  that  one  of  them  set  against  his  breast,  and 
tried  to  keep  the  murderous  steel  out  of  his  body.  But  the  other's 
bayonet  was  ready  to  do  the  work  alone,  and  even  then  the  Tyro- 
lese felt  its  point  piercing  his  heavy  coat.     Life  seemed  but  a 


OTTO    VON   SCH ACHING.  37 

matter  of  moments,  wlien  a  shot  rang  out  right  at  hand,  and  one 
of  the  soldiers  fell. 

The  death  of  his  two  companions  maddened  the  remaining 
grenadier.  His  flaming  eye  sought  the  new  opponent,  and  beheld 
a  woman  threatening  him  with  the  butt  of  her  raised  rifle.  Like 
lightning  his  saber  flashed  out  of  its  sheath,  and,  with  an  oath  at 
the  "  canaille,"  he  sprang  toward  her,  and  made  a  plunge  at  her 
side  with  his  weapon.  Just  as  he  struck  her  another  shot  rang 
out,  and  he,  too,  fell.  For  Franz  had  paid  home  swiftly  the  injury 
to  his  brave  wife. 

All  these  things  had  happened  so  rapidly  that  Franz  hardly 
knew  what  it  all  meant.  Only  now  did  his  glance  fall  upon  the 
Unterinnthaler,  who  was  slowly  gathering  himself  from  the  ground 
and  getting  up.  His  face  was  black  with  powder  and  perspira- 
tion. Nevertheless,  Franz  recognized  him,  with  a  sort  of  glad 
fear: 

"  Heavens,  father,  art  hurt  ?  " 

"  Yes,  that  I  am ;  but  'tis  a  trifle.  First  let  us  look  after  Af ra. 
Me  later." 

Franz  examined  his  wife's  wound.  Fortunately  it  was  not 
severe.  Father  and  son  raised  the  unconscious  young  woman,  and 
carried  her  to  a  near-by  farmhouse,  whose  white  outlines  were  seen 
through  the  trees. 

"  Father,"  Franz  related  on  the  way,  "  'twas  Af  ra  saw  thee  first. 
As  soon  as  she  did,  she  ran  with  the  rifle,  and  before  I  really 
knew  what  she  wanted.  I  didn't  think  that  thou,  too,  wast  in  the 
fight." 

"  As  if  a  Trauner  could  stay  at  home  at  such  a  time !  "  said  the 
old  man,  in  answer.     "  Art  not  here,  too,  Franz  ?  "  he  asked. 

That  was  all  that  passed  between  the  two,  but  it  was  enough 
to  bring  peace  with  it. 

When  Afra  recovered  after  her  long  unconsciousness,  she  was 
astonished  to  find  herself  in  a  bed  and  in  care  of  tender  hands. 
Franz  and  his  father  stood  at  her  bedside.  Every  trace  of  hard- 
ness had  passed  from  the  farmer's  face.  His  lips  were  silent,  but 
their  trembling  showed  the  deep  emotion  with  which  he  was  strug- 


38  AFRA. 

gling.  Suddenly,  as  if  following  a  swift  impnlse,  he  took  hold 
of  his  daughter-in-law's  hand. 

"Afra,"  he  said,  unsteadily,  "I  thank  thee.  Thou'lt  forgive 
me  now  ?  " 

She  replied  with  a  happy  smile  and  a  silent  pressure  of  her 
hand.  And  strange  to  say,  at  this  a  singular  tenderness  came  over 
the  old  man,  and  the  tears  began  rolling  down  his  cheeks.  After- 
ward he  wondered  how  he  could  have  been  so  "  soft."  It  was 
hardly  his  usual  way. 

Six  months  later  Franz  was  working  away  at  the  Twelve  Apos- 
tles in  a  little  cottage  adjoining  the  Wiedeck  farmhouse.  He  and 
his  Afra  were  living  there  so  as  to  be  near  their  parents. 


KARL    DOMANia 


Karl  Domanig  was  born  April  3,  1851.  at  Sterzing  in  the 
Tyrol.  His  grandfather  was  a  friend  of  Andreas  Hofer,  the  Tyrolese 
patriot  leader,  and  Domanig's  family  was  one  of  the  best  known 
in  the  country.  When  he  was  ten  years  old  he  was  sent  to  the 
Preparatory  School  of  the  Benedictines  at  Fiecht.  After  that  he 
went  to  the  Schools  of  Brixen.  Salzburg  and  Meran  and  the 
Universities  of  Innsbruck  and  Strassburg.  In  Rome,  where  he 
studied   for   two   years  at   the    Collegium    Romanum,   he   took   the 


degree  of  Doctor  of  Philosophy.  After  his  return  from  Rome,  he 
devoted  himself  to  philology  and  the  study  of  early  German.  He 
took  up  particularly  Wolfram  von  Eschenbach's  "  Parzival,"'  on 
which  he  wrote  several  treatises.  The  Austrian  Minister  of 
Education  awarded  him  a  stipend  for  traveling  expenses,  in  1880, 
which  enabled  him  to  spend  some  time  in  Italy,  devoted  to  the  study 
of  the  history  of  art.  After  that  he  removed  to  Vienna,  being 
employed  first  as  tutor  to  the  children  of  Philip,  Duke  of 
Wiirtemberg,  and  later  in  the  same  capacity,  to  the  sons  of 
Archduke  Carl  Ludwig.  In  1884  he  entered  as  a  volunteer  in  the 
Museum  of  Coins  and  Antiquities,  and  in  1887,  after  he  had 
married,  received  the  appointment  of  custodian  at  the  Royal 
Museum  of  Art.  He  has  written  many  technical  articles  as  a 
result  of  the  opportunities  for  obtaining  material   in  the   Museum. 

He  made  his  first  entrance  into  poetic  literature  by  a  trilogy 
dealing  with  the  Tyrolese  struggle  for  liberty.  '•  It  is  in  the  spirit 
of  Shakespeare,  simple  yet  profound,  pious  yet  strong,  humble  yet 
great,  and,  above  all  things,  true  and  human — "  such  was  the 
criticism  of  Father  Kreiten  in  the  Stimmen  aiis  Maria-Laach  in 
1897.  He  also  wrote  the  drama,  "  Der  Gutsverkauf."  and  the 
poetic  tale,  "  Der  Abt  von  Fiecht."  The  latter,  an  eaition  de  luxe, 
has  gone  into  three  editions  and  has  been  translated  into  the 
Norwegian.  His  novel,  "  Die  Fremden.  '  has  also  gone  into  a 
second  edition.  Moreover,  he  has  written  a  collection  of  little 
stories  dealing  altogether  with  his  native  country. 

Domanig  is  the  representative  of  the  Tyrolese  in  modern  German 
literature.  He  is  enthusiastically  devoted  to  his  country,  and  also 
thoroughly  Catholic  in  spirit.  In  his  writings  he  manages  to  find 
the  difficult  mean  between  cosmopolitan  and  narrowly  local  tend- 
encies, as  well  as  to  keep  his  head  between  the  romantic  and 
naturalistic  schools.  His  realism  is  clean  and  robust,  and  his 
idealism  healthful  and  free  from  affectation. 


Ube   posttlton  ot  Scboenbera. 

BY    KARL    DOMANIG. 

CHAPTER  I. 

WHICH  TELLS  OF  GEORGE^  THE  POSTILION,  AND  HOW  HE  PLANNED 
TO    GET    MARRIED. 

I  HAD  a  dear  old  aunt,  more  than  ninety  years  old,  and 
mourned  by  all  who  knew  her  when  she  passed  away.  She  was 
the  widow  of  the  master  of  the  post  at  Schoenberg  in  the  great 
house  that  now  stands  so  lonely  and  deserted. 

What  a  contrast  between  the  past  and  the  present! 

In  her  time  the  masters  of  the  post  had  twenty  and  more 
horses  in  their  stables,  kept  four  to  six  postilions — or  stage-coach 
drivers — and  were  the  familiars  of  princes  and  great  people. 
Kings  and  emperors  ate  and  lodged  for  the  night  in  the  post  inns. 
My  aunt  knew  all  of  the  older  princes  of  the  ruling  house  of 
Austria  personally.  What  wonder,  then,  that  she  could  tell  great 
tales  of  the  old  days?  And  then,  too,  she  told  her  stories  very 
entertainingly,  so  that  one  did  not  weary  listening  to  her. 

"Tell  me,"  I  said  to  her  one  day,  "the  story  of  the  postilion. 
You  did  tell  it  to  me  once,  but  it  is  long  ago  and  I  should  like 
to  hear  it  again." 

She  did  not  remember  at  once  which  one  I  meant,  for  pos- 
tilions she  had  known  many,  and  of  each  one  she  could  tell 
some  little  tale. 

"He  who  came  up  from  the  Unterinn  Valley,  and  stayed  with 
you  for  seven  years,  and  then  made  such  a  to-do  about  getting 
married " 

"Oh,  about  him?     That  was  George.     He  must  have  been 

41 


42  THE  POSTILION  OF  SCHOENBERG. 

with  us  about  nine  years  and  was  one  of  the  best  and  most  faith- 
ful postilions  we  ever  had." 

"Where  was  he  really  from  ?" 

"From  the  Inn  Valley — I  do  not  just  remember  what  village. 
In  the  first  years  he  was  with  us  he  used  to  tell  me  over  and 
over  again  of  his  home,  how  much  more  beautiful  everything 
was  there,  and  how  much  pleasanter  the  people  were.  So  that 
at  last  I  was  a  little  vexed,  and  said  to  him :  'Indeed,  what  sur- 
prises me  is  that  you  stay  here  at  all  as  long  as  there  is  so  little 
to  please  you  here.'  But  then  he  was  a  poor  lad,  and  had  no  rela- 
tives except  his  old  father  whom  he  helped  to  support.  And  so 
he  had  to  make  the  best  of  us  and  of  his  place  with  us." 

"And  that  probably  wasn't  the  worst  that  could  have  hap- 
pened him,"  I  remarked.  "For  the  retainers  of  your  house 
were  well  taken  care  of,  I'm  sure.  But  what  then,  aunt?  How 
was  it  about  the  marriage?" 

"Oh,  yes.  That  may  have  been  about  thirty  years  ago. 
George  had  been  with  us  going  on  the  ninth  year.  Coming  down 
stairs  one  morning  I  saw  him  standing  at  the  post-master's  door, 
bending  to  the  keyhole,  and  listening  for  some  one  to  say  'Come 
in.'  'Looking  for  the  post-master?'  I  asked.  'He  isn't  here — he 
is  gone  for  the  day.     What  do  you  want?' 

"Oh,  I  could  manage  about  it  some  other  day  too,"  George 
said,  but  remained  standing  where  he  was.  He  was  a  tall,  power- 
ful  fellow,  and  I  a  mere  midget  beside  him. 

"  'Indeed,  do  you  need  money  ?'  I  asked. 

"  'No,'  he  said,  but  he  did  not  go.  Then  I  noticed  for  the 
first  time  that  he  was  in  gala  attire  and  wondered  why — on  a 
plain  work-day,  and  no  distinguished  guests  in  the  house. 

"  'You  know,'  he  went  on,  somewhat  embarrassed,  'I  really 
could  tell  it  to  you  just  as  well —  But  then  we  must  be  alone.  Mis- 
tress.' 

"  'Hm,  a  secret,  is  it  ?'  and  I  unlocked  the  door  of  the  post- 
master's ofTice.  And  George  took  off  his  hat  and  scratched  his 
ears  and  hesitated. 


KARL    DOMANia.  48 

"'Well,  what  is  it  anyway?'  I  asked  again. 

"  *I  would  like  to  get  married.' 

"  'Married — you  ?     But  on  what  ?' 

"  'Oh,  I  have  saved  a  nice  sum.  Mistress.' 

"  'You  have  ?     Yes,  you  are  likely  to  have  a  great  pile.' 

"  'Oho/  George  chuckled.     'Now  just  guess.' 

"  'Oh,  well,'  I  said,  'probably  you  have  something  worth  while.' 
For,  you  know,  a  postilion  in  those  days  could  make  a  good  deal 
through  tips,  but  the  trouble  with  most  of  them  was  that  they 
spent  a  good  deal  too.  But  George,  as  I  said,  was  always  saving 
and  if  he  spent  anything  extra  it  was  for  his  father.  He  sent 
him  a  few  gulden  every  month. 

"  'But  guess,'  George  went  on. 

"  'Altogether  you  probably  have  a  few  thousand.' 

"  'Yes  ?  Just  wait,  and  raise  it  a  little.  Seven  thousand  and 
some  hundred  I  have,  Mistress.' 

"  'Why,  George,  you  are  doing  better  than  the  master !  To 
save  seven  thousand  gulden  in  nine  years — that's  not  a  little 
money,  and  everybody  wouldn't  believe  you.' 

"  'But  I  have  had  good  luck  too,  Mistress.  And  you  under- 
stand what  with  the  tips  and  the  wages  and  putting  it  all  at 
interest,  it  soon  grows  a  good  deal.' 

"  'Yes,  yes,'  I  said,  'and  the  best  capital,  and  the  one  that  has 
probably  brought  you  the  most  blessing  is  what  you  have  done 
for  your  father.' 

"  'It  is  true  I've  always  been  fond  of  him.  But  then  that 
is  my  duty  too.' 

" '  'Tis  your  duty  and  it  is  fine  of  you  to  do  your  duty. 
"Honor  thy  father  and  thy  mother,  that  thou  mayest  be  long- 
lived  upon  the  land  which  the  Lord  thy  God  will  give  thee." ' 

"George  brought  our  rambling  talk  back  to  the  subject  again 
by  saying  that  he  needed  God's  blessing,  especially  now  when  he 
meant  to  marry.  For  marriage  was,  after  all,  the  most  important 
step  in  life.  With  a  good  wife  a  man  could  be  happy  all  his 
life,  but  with  a  bad  one  just  as  unhappy. 


44  THE  POSTILION  OF  SCHOENBERO. 

"  'Yes,'  I  paid,  'and  I  suppose  you  have  your  eye  on  a  particu- 
lar one?' 

"  'True,'  he  answered. 

"  'And  is  she  good  ?' 

"  'Good  as  gold,  Mistress,  so  I  have  heard.' 

"  'That  is  the  first  thing  to  be  thought  of,  George.  Has  she 
some  means  of  her  own?' 

"  'She  has  not  only  some,  but  a  good  deal.' 

"  'Well,  what  are  you  worrying  about  then  ?' 

"  'Yes — but — but,  you  know — the  question  would  be  whether 
we  really  are  suited  to  each  other.' 

"Just  think!  Now  he  wanted  me  to  tell  him  whether  they 
were  suited  to  each  other  or  not.     It  almost  made  me  laugh ! 

"  'In  heaven's  name,'  I  asked,  'have  you  not  noticed  yourself 
whether  you  like  each  other  or  not?' 

"  'Like  each  other  ?  I  took  her  up  on  the  seat  with  me  once 
on  the  return  coach,  and  then  I  talked  to  her  several  times  after 
that,  but  nothing  more.'  And  now  he  told  me  too  who  the  maid 
was,  and  how  he  first  came  to  think  of  her. 

"I  knew  her  very  well.  It  was  Vincentia — Cenz,  as  she  was 
called,  who  lived  up  in  the  Matrei  forest.  She  had  been  down 
with  us  when  we  were  in  the  old  posthouse  to  learn  to  cook.  She 
was  there  almost  a  whole  year ;  then  her  father  died,  and  she  had 
to  go  home.  She  was  the  only  child  and  lived  with  her  mother 
and  aunt  on  the  farm,  part  of  which  they  rented.  The  farm  be- 
longed to  them  free  of  incumbrance  and  the  girl  was  as  good 
as  could  be.  She  wouldn't  have  a  certain  young  man,  Luis 
Kloben,  though  there  were  some  people  who  said  that  it  was  a 
wonder  he  would  have  her.  For  you  know  he  was  young,  hand- 
some, and  rich.  But  there  was  a  good  deal  of  talk  about  his 
morals  and  it  was  true  that  he  spent  most  of  the  time  lounging 
around  the  public-house.  That's  why  Cenz  refused  him.  Yes, 
the  girl  was  all  right  and  George  was  to  be  congratulated,  and  I 
did  congratulate  him  too. 

"  'If  I  only  had  her !'  he  said. 

"  Well,  you  must  see  about  it,'  I  said  encouragingly. 


KARL    DOMANIO.  46 

"  'I  was  on  my  way  there,'  he  went  on,  'and  that's  why  I  have 
my  good  uniform  on.  But  1  just  wanted  lo  ask —  What  do  you 
think  now,  Mistress?  Do  you  think  that  we're  suited  to  each 
other?' 

CHAPTER  II. 

THE    MATTER    HAS    A    LITTLE    HITCH. 

"George  went,  taking  the  coach  that  was  to  be  brought  to 
Steinaeh,  and  stopped  to  see  Cenz  on  his  way  back.  He  made 
his  proposal  to  her  or  her  mother;  I  really  do  not  remember  if 
she  happened  to  be  at  home  herself.  In  about  a  fortnight  she 
came  down  and  asked  that  she  might  see  George  in  my  presence. 
The  post-master  and  her  mother  were  there  too.  It  was  settled 
that  George  was  to  stay  with  us  until  after  Easter,  and  then  they 
were  to  be  married  up  on  the  farm. 

"Even  then  I  noticed  that  while  George  was  very  pleasant 
to  his  bride-to-be,  there  yet  seemed  to  be  something  like  indeci- 
sion and  melancholy  in  his  manner.  I  watched  him  a  long 
time  while  they  sat  together  and  talked  and  brought  them  some 
wine  up  to  the  little  reception  room  myself.  Of  course  I  did 
not  let  him  know  I  noticed  it,  but  whenever  I  had  a  chance  after- 
wards I  would  stay  to  George:  'You  are  getting  a  good  wife. 
Cenz  is  handy  and  agreeable  and  you  can't  be  thankful  enough.' 
Just  the  same  we  hated  to  lose  him,  for,  as  the  post-master  often 
said,  such  postilions  were  scarce. 

"One  day,  it  was  about  three  weeks  before  Easter  Sunday, 
George  came  and  asked  for  several  days  off,  because  he  wanted 
to  go  to  see  his  father  and  his  friends,  as  he  had  not  been  at 
home  for  nine  years.  At  that  time  there  was  not  much  travel, 
and  the  post-master  gave  him  permission  to  go.  But  George 
stayed  longer  than  he  agreed.  We  were  all  distressed,  because  we 
could  not  understand  it  in  such  a  punctual  fellow  as  George 
usually  was.  I  said  something  must  surely  have  happened  him 
or  he  would  be  here.  When  he  did  come  at  last  he  looked  trou- 
bled and  worn.  For  this  reason  the  post-master  did  not  say  a 
word  to  him  about  his  staying  away  so  long — neither  did  I.     I 


46  THE  POSTILION  OF  SCHOENBERG. 

only  asked  him  if  he  was  not  welL  He  muttered  an  answer, 
whether  yes  or  no,  I  could  not  understand.  And  when  I  brought 
him  some  camomile  tea  he  said :  'Nothing  will  help  me ;  just  let 
me  go.' 

"And  I  let  him  go,  though  I  kept  an  eye  on  him  all  the  time, 
for  the  man  began  to  seem  doubtful  to  me.  lie  went  about 
moping,  and  when  it  was  his  turn  to  take  the  coach  he  never 
blew  his  horn  any  more,  though  he  could  blow  it  as  none  other 
could.  At  last  I  said  to  the  post-master:  'I  do  not  understand 
George  at  all.     I  think  I  will  talk  to  him  a  little.' 

"So  one  morning  after  breakfast  I  managed  to  catch  him 
alone,  and  asked  him  how  he  was  getting  along.  He  did  not 
answer. 

"  'Something  must  be  wrong  with  you,  George,'  I  said. 
'Since  you  went  to  the  valley  you  are  very  strange.  Are  you 
sick?     Tell  me  honestly  what  is  wrong.' 

"At  this  George  looked  out  of  the  window,  and  drummed  on 
the  pane  and  left  me  standing  there  without  a  word. 

"  'Go  on,  George,'  I  said,  'what  sort  of  a  manner  is  this  ? 
Look  at  me.  Why,  see  here,  if  Cenz  knew  about  this  she  would 
be  grieved.'  And  then  I  took  hold  of  his  hand  and  said  that  I 
meant  well  with  him,  and  for  him  to  confide  in  me 

"  'I  don't  like  her  any  more,  if  3'ou  7nust  know  it,'  he  said 
then,  all  of  sudden.  'It's  all  over,  and  I  am  going  now,  right 
away,  to  tell  her  so  myself.' 

"  'But,  George,  how  did  this  come  and  why  ?'  I  was  very 
much  astonished.  He  started  to  go  out  but  I  restrained  him, 
saying  commandingly :  'Now  you  stay  here,  George.  I  have  a 
word  to  say  in  this  matter,  too.  You're  not  out  of  our  service 
yet,  and  as  long  as  you  are  with  us,  I  will  not  permit  that  you 
should  act  in  such  an  unchristian  manner.  Yes,  yes,  just  look 
at  me.  I  tell  you  that's  no  way  to  treat  a  decent  girl,  to  desert 
her  and  ruin  her  chances  after  everyone  knows  that  you  have  been 
engaged  to  her.' 

"I  talked  harshly  in  my  indignation  and  he  became  very  red. 
Then  I  softened  a  little  and  asked  him  to  sit  down. 


KARL    DOMANIG.  47 

"  *If  I  have  wronged  you,  I  did  not  mean  to,  George,  but 
tell  me  what  is  the  matter,'  and  I  urged  him  to  sit  down.  As 
he  did  so  his  hat  fell  out  of  his  hand,  and  I  picked  it  up  and 
when  I  looked  up  again  the  tears  were  rolling  down  his  cheeks. 
Then  I  did  not  know  what  to  do,  and  so  was  silent.  He  too,  said 
nothing,  but  wiped  his  eyes  impatiently  and  started  to  leave  once 
more. 

"By  this  time  I  thought  he  had  met  some  other  girl  in  the 
valley  and  that  is  why  he  did  not  want  Cenz  any  more,  for  the 
girls  there  are  very  taking.  But  when  I  remembered  what  a 
good  and  faithful  girl  Cenz  really  was,  I  said  angrily:  'Go, 
George,  just  go  on;  but  there  is  no  blessing  on  faithlessness. 
The  girl  that  stole  you  away  from  Cenz  will  hardly  bring  you 
luck.' 

"Then   George  turned  around  and   looked   squarely  at  me. 

"  'Mistress/  he  said,  'there  is  no  other  girl  that  I  like  better, 
but  before  I'd  take  Cenz,  I'd  go  to  my  grave.' 

"  But  for  heaven's  sake,  what  is  this  ?  Has  she  done  some- 
thing wrong?' 

"  'Nothing  wrong  at  all.  But  I  don't  like  her  any  more.  I 
can't  take  her,  Mistress — we're  not  suited  to  each  other.' 

"He  brought  it  out  in  gasps,  as  if  it  were  very  hard  for  him 
to  say  it.  And  after  he  had  said  it  he  sat  down  again  and  then 
I  sat  down  too,  beside  him,  and  at  last  he  began  to  talk,  though 
I  had  to  coax  him  by  asking  many  questions  first. 

"  'No,  Mistress,  don't  bother  asking  me  questions.  You'll 
not  guess  it  anyway.  I  really  don't  know  how  it  is  myself. 
For  truly  there  is  no  other  and  never  was,  except  Margarethe, 
God  give  her  peace.  I  can  never  forget  her,  though  it  is  nine 
years  now  since  death  took  her.  As  for  Cenz — she  is  good  enough 
as  far  as  that  goes,  and  what  has  come  between  us,  it  puzzles  me 
to  tell.  When  I  went  away  from  here  that  time  with  the  wagon 
toward  Innsbruck,  it  was  a  rainy  evening  and  the  narrow  valley 
seemed  narrower  than  ever.  It  was  just  stifling  up  on  the  Isel 
Mountain.  However,  it  stopped  raining,  and  below  lay  Inns- 
bruck with  its  thousands  of  lights  and  I  breathed  deeply  again. 


48  THE  POSTILION   OF  SCHOENBERG. 

I  was  so  glad  to  be  back  in  the  Inn  Valley  once  more.  Then  the 
next  day  I  let  Joseph  take  the  wagon  baek  as  the  post-master 
said  that  he  should,  and  went  on  a-foot.  I  stayed  over  night 
in  liothholz  and  the  next  day  I  was  at  home.  It  was  so  nice 
the  very  first  day  and  I  felt  better  the  farther  I  went,  and  when 
at  last  I  M-alked  through  the  village  the  houses  all  seemed  to 
me  as  if  they  were  new  painted  and  decorated.  When  I  saw 
father  again  and  all  my  friends  and  heard  them  talk  the  way 
they  talk  at  home,  then  something  came  over  me — oh,  I  cannot 
tell  you  how  or  what,  but  it  seemed  that  I  must  stay  right  there 
and  no  place  else,  and  I  could  like  no  one  but  the  people  at  home, 
and  all  of  these  together.  Eeally  even  in  the  graveyard  I  was 
happier  than  here.  And  then  it  began  to  seem  to  me  that  Schoen- 
berg  and  the  Matrei  forest  were  lonesome  and  dreary,  and  Cenz 
came  into  my  mind,  every  word  that  she  had  spoken  and  I  was 
sick  of  it  all.  And  since  then  I'd  rather  be  out  of  the  world  than 
go  and  marry  Cenz  and  live  up  there  with  her.  It  is  so,  and  I 
can't  help  it.  I  have  prayed  and  it  did  no  good.  No,  God 
knows,  Mistress,  better  a  pain  once  than  a  pain  forever,  and  she 
herself  would  only  be  unhappy  with  me.' 

"That's  the  way  George  talked,  and  what  could  you  do  with 
the  homesick  child,  the  great,  overgrown  baby?  I  tried  to  tell 
him  that  a  man's  home  is  rather  where  his  calling  and  the  Lord 
send  him  than  where  he  happens  to  be  born.  But  to  preach 
in  a  case  like  that,  what  good  is  it?  George  just  hung  his  head 
and  paid  no  attention  to  me. 

"The  same  morning  it  was  his  turn  to  take  the  stage  to 
Steinach.  I  felt  rather  queer  as  I  looked  after  him  driving  along 
and  never  a  sound  from  the  horn.  Then  I  did  not  see  him 
again  until  the  next  day.  He  did  not  come  back  until  late  at 
night  when  we  all  were  asleep  and  what  happened  in  the  mean- 
time I  know  only  as  he  told  me  later  and  partly  too  from  the 
inn-keeper  up  in  Matrei. 


KARL    DOMANI&.  40 

CHAPTER  III. 

THERE  IS  A  TURN  OF  THE  TABLES. 

"George  in  coming  back  stopped  at  Matrei,  where  an  old 
acquaintance  of  his  was  living,  a  former  stage-driver,  and  asked 
him  to  take  the  coach  home.  He  himself  had  business  in  Matrei. 
The  other  man  laughed  a  little  and  agreed  to  do  so. 

"And  then  George  went  into  the  inn.  But  he  did  not  want 
to  drink,  much  less  did  he  want  company.  He  just  wanted  to  sit 
by  himself  and  wait,  for  he  dreaded  the  visit  to  his  bride. 

"He  felt  sorry  for  her  at  heart,  anyway.  Such  a  good,  ami- 
able girl  as  she  was  and  now  he  was  going  to  say  to  her,  '1  do  not 
want  you.'  But  marry  her  ?  No  !  They  were  not  suited  to  each 
other  and  both  of  them  would  only  be  unhappy  for  life. 

"And  so  he  sat  all  alone  at  the  farthest  table,  for  the  general 
company  was  too  boisterous  and  gay  for  him.  And  in  the  mean- 
time he  tried  to  think  over  and  over  again  what  he  should  say  to 
Cenz,  and  whether  there  was  no  way  out  of  it  at  all.  But  he 
could  think  of  none.  The  maid  asked  him  'What  is  wrong  with 
you  to-day,  George?'     He  did  not  answer. 

"The  guests  at  the  other  table  finally  saw  this,  and  began 
to  tease,  which  he  did  not  seem  to  notice.  Luis  Kloben  alone 
said  nothing,  but  sat  and  watched  him  sharply.  Kloben  had  been 
in  the  inn  since  noon  and  was  very  red  in  the  face  by  this  time. 
At  last  he  got  up  and  taking  his  glass  went  and  sat  down  at  the 
table  with  George. 

"  'What  is  the  matter  with  you  to-day,  George  ?'  he  asked, 
in  a  friendly  tone,  though  usually  he  could  not  bear  him,  and 
when  George  turned  his  back  on  him  he  leaned  over  and  whis- 
pered in  his  ear:  'Cenz,  isn't  it?  Did  she  give  it  to  you  too? 
But  then  the  girls, — that's  their  way.  Well,  here's  to  your 
health,  we're  brethren.' 

"He  screamed  out  the  last,  laughing  as  if  he  were  gone  fool- 
ish. George  looked  at  him  from  head  to  foot,  rose,  pushed  him 
away  and  went  out,  forgetting  to  pay. 

"How  he  got  to  the  farm  he  never  could  tell,  but  all  at 


50  THE  POSTILION  OF  SCHOENBERG. 

once  he  stood  in  front  of  the  house  and  could  not  go  in.  It  was 
as  if  he  were  spell-bound.  Then  the  little  dog  ran  out,  a  snappy, 
ugly-tempered  little  brute,  and  flew  at  his  leggings.  George  paid 
no  attention  to  him  and  the  dog  sprang  up  higher  and  tore  at 
his  breeches.     Then  George  chased  him  and  opened  the  door. 

"Cenz  herself  was  sewing  by  the  window,  and  behind  the  stove 
were  her  mother  and  the  old  aunt  t^pinning.  As  George  entered 
the  mother  rose  quickly,  and  taking  her  wheel  went  into  the  ad- 
joining chamber.  George  greeted  them  all,  but  only  the  aunt 
responded.  Cenz  herself  barely  looked  up  from  her  sewing  long 
enough  to  see  who  it  was,  and  then  she  bent  her  head  again  to 
hide  the  deep  red  that  flashed  over  her  face  and  neck.  The  little 
dog  kept  up  his  growling  a  few  seconds  longer,  then  crouched 
behind  the  stove  and  there  was  utter  silence. 

"George  sat  down  on  the  bench  opposite  Cenz,  resting  his 
hand  on  the  torn  knee.     The  aunt  kept  turning  her  wheel. 

"After  a  while  George  looked  at  his  betrothed.  The  setting 
sun  was  shining  on  her  thick  blonde  hair,  giving  it  a  golden 
shimmer,  and  her  eyes  fixed  on  her  busy  needle  seemed  full 
and  clear.  Then  he  said  timidly:  'Cenz,  don't  I  get  even  a 
greeting  to-day?' 

"Cenz  did  not  look  up.  *I  think  that  instead  of  greeting  each 
other  we  should  be  saying  Good-by,  God  be  with  you,'  she  said. 

"  'Do  you  think  so  ?'  George  asked.  The  tears  came  into  the 
girl's  eyes  and  she  covered  her  face  with  her  hands  and  leaned  her 
head  against  the  window. 

"In  the  meantime  the  aunt  had  stopped  spinning  and  was 
watching  the  two  young  people.  At  last  she  burst  out:  'Well, 
then,  George,  it  seems  it  is  I  who  must  tell  you  that  everything 
is  over  as  far  as  Cenz  is  concerned.  She  doesn't  want  you  any 
more.' 

"George  looked  at  her  and  then  at  Cenz,  and  did  not  know 
what  had  happened  him.  Had  he  not  come  to  ask  his  release — 
and  now?  How  did  she  anticipate  it?  It  seemed  to  him  that 
things  were  whirling  around  him,  and  he  sat  staring  straight 
ahead  without  a  word.     Then  the  aunt  began  again: 


KARL    DOMANia.  61 

"  'We  did  think  you  were  a  good  fellow,  but  if  things  are  as 
they  say  and  you  want  to  put  the  old  folks  out  of  the  house 
as  soon  as  you  get  into  it,  then  it  is  better  for  us  not  to  let 
you  get  in.  Do  you  understand?  And  with  a  fellow  like  that, 
Cenz  doesn't  want  to  have  anything  to  do.  Now  you  know 
it.' 

"  'But  George  did  not  understand  even  yet,  and  he  only  asked* 
dazedly:  'What?' 

"  'What  ?  Do  you  want  to  deny  it  ?'  the  aunt  went  on,  get- 
ting  angry  now.  'Haven't  we  witnesses?  Cenz  will  not  havfi 
any  man  who  does  not  honor  her  mother.  She  could  have  had 
many  others,  and  you  needn't  think  so  much  of  yourself  because 
of  your  money.' 

"Then  the  door  opened  and  the  mother  came  out  of  the 
chamber.  'Yes,'  she  said  to  George,  'You  will  see  that  the  bless- 
ing of  God  is  not  on  you  if  you  treat  old  people  that  way.  You 
will  find  it  out  some  day  when  your  own  children  turn  you  out 
of  the  house  when  you  can't  work  any  more.  They  will  treat 
you  just  as  you'd  like  to  treat  me  now.' 

"Then  George  began  to  see  a  glimmer  of  light.  He  rose  and 
said:  'This  is  strange  talk,  mother.  Whoever  knows  my  father 
can  ask  him  whether  I  have  done  my  duty  by  him  or  not.  And 
I  never  meant  to  treat  you  diflFerently,  mother.  Whoever  says 
so  is  a  liar.' 

"'Liar?'  screamed  the  aunt.  'Kow  just  look  at  the  rowdy!' 
She  fixed  her  eyes  on  the  torn  knee  of  his  breeches.  'Do  you 
think  we  don't  know  what  you've  been  saying?' 

"'What  did  I  say?  What  is  it?  Out  with  it  now— I  want 
to  know !'  said  George. 

"  'You  don't  need  to  know  anything,'  screamed  the  aunt 
again.  'It's  enough  if  we  know.'  And  the  mother  said:  'Go 
on.  We  took  you  for  a  saint  long  enough.  You  will  not  de- 
ceive us  any  more.' 

"And  hearing  the  women  talk  and  scold,  the  little  dog  came 
out  again  from  behind  the  stove  and  began  barking.  George 
gtpod  in  the  midst  of  them,  anger  and  annoyance  struggling  for 


52  THE  POSTILION  OF  SCHOENBERG. 

mastery.  At  last  Cenz  came  over  to  him  and  said :  'Luis  Kloben 
told  mother.' 

"  'But  what  did  he  tell  your  mother,  Cenz  ?'  George  asked 
almost  tearfully. 

"  'Oh,  George,  that  you  said  to  the  landlord  down  at  the  inn 
and  to  him  that  as  soon  as  we're  married  mother  would  have  to 
get  out  of  the  house,'  and  sobbing  bitterly  she  went  back  to  the 
window. 

"The  two  old  women  began  to  abuse  him  again  and  the  dog 
barked  harder  than  ever.  Then  George  gave  him  a  kick  that 
sent  him  into  a  corner  and  shaking  his  finger  threateningl}^,  he 
said,  'Luis  Kloben  and  the  landlord?  So  that's  it?  I'll  bring 
both  of  them  up  here  this  very  day,  and  see  what  they  have  to 
say,'  and  with  that  he  stormed  out  of  the  house. 

"When  the  women  saw  George  so  angry  they  were  silent  and 
embarrassed  for  a  while.  Then  Cenz  began  gently  to  take  his 
part,  saying  that  she  never  did  believe  anything  that  Luis  Kloben 
said.  But  her  mother  said :  'He  told  me  in  confidence,'  and  the 
aunt  pointed  to  the  landlord  as  chief  witness. 

CHAPTEE  IV. 

IN    WHICH    GEORGE    TRIES    TO    CLEAR    HIMSELF    AND    MIXES    UP 

THINGS. 

"When  George  got  back  to  the  inn  it  was  dark,  and  the 
landlord  was  just  reciting  the  Eosary  with  his  household  and 
servants. 

"George  went  up  to  him  without  waiting  a  second :  'What 
did  you  say  that  I  said?'  he  cried  threateningly. 

"The  landlord,  still  kneeling,  answered :  'Just  let  me  finish 
the  Eosary.     There  is  time  enough  to  talk  afterwards.' 

"But  the  prayerful  temper  was  gone.  All  were  looking  at 
George,  and  the  maids  were  giggling.  George  muttered  some- 
thing and  went  into  the  public  ropm.  The  landlord  wept.  911  pray- 
ing. 


KARL    DOMANIG.  53 

"Luis  was  still  sitting  all  alone  at  a  table,  and  George  went 
for  him  at  once.  Just  what  happened  he  never  liked  to  tell 
afterwards.  But  when  the  landlord  and  the  servants  came  in — 
whether  they  had  finished  praying,  or  whether  the  noise  brought 
them — George  had  thrown  Luis  to  the  ground  and  was  choking 
him,  saying  between  gasps,  'Liar,  scoundrel,  will  you  own  up 
that  you  lied?' 

"When  they  were  separated  the  landlord  asked  George  what 
he  meant  by  coming  into  his  house  and  fighting.  He  couldn't 
understand  it  in  him.  Then  George  turned  on  the  landlord, 
and  said  that  he  too  had  lied  about  him,  and  acted  like  wild.  It 
was  a  long  time  before  the  man  could  make  anything  out  of  it. 
Then  he  said,  'George,  you  are  right.  I  never  heard  you  say  any- 
thing like  that.' 

"  'Do  you  hear  that — ^you "  and  he  started  for  Luis  again, 

but  the  landlord  held  George,  and  Luis  slipped  behind  the  table. 

"  'Will  you  apologize  now  ?'  But  Luis  refused,  though  the 
landlord  urged  him  also. 

"  'Do  you  know,  Luis,'  the  landlord  said  then,  'every  man 
has  a  right  to  believe  you  or  not,  and  most  men  will  know 
how  much  stock  to  take  in  your  talk,  but  you  must  not  call  on 
me  as  a  witness.  I  never  heard  George  say  anything  like  that 
and  I  don't  believe  he  would  either.' 

"When  George  saw  that  he  could  do  nothing  more  with  Luis 
he  urged  the  landlord  to  go  to  Cenz  and  clear  him. 

"  'Very  well,  I'll  gladly  do  that.' 

"  'All  right,'  said  George,  'We'll  go.' 

"'Now?  At  this  time  of  the  night?  I'll  not  go  out  there 
now.  There's  no  such  hurry  either.  I  have  to  go  in  that  direc- 
tion to-morrow  after  a  calf,  and  then  I'll  tell  her.' 

"Then  George  got  angry  again  and  the  landlord  finally  told 
him  that  he'd  better  go  home  if  he  could  not  listen  to  reason 
in  any  form, 

"One  can  imagine  that  it  was  an  affair  of  which  George  did 
not  care  to  talk  afterwards.  When  he  was  gone  the  landlord 
sent  Kloben  home  and  forbade  him  ever  coming  back.     And  for 


54  THE  POSTILION  OF  SCHOENBERG. 

that  matter  when  the  story  was  told  there  were  few  who  believed 
anything  Luis  Kloben  had  to  say. 

"Early  the  next  morning  George  was  waiting  for  me  at  the 
foot  of  the  stairs.  'Well,'  I  said,  'what's  the  matter  so  early 
in  the  morning?'  I  held  my  little  lantern  up  in  front  of  his 
face  and  he  looked  so  pale  and  disturbed  that  I  did  not  say  any- 
thing about  his  coming  in  late.  And  then  he  began  to  tell  me 
in  bits.  I  could  make  nothing  out  of  it  all  at  first  except  that  he 
Manted  me  to  go  to  see  the  girl  and  tell  her  that  what  they  said 
about  him  was  not  true. 

"In  the  meantime  the  post-master  came  along  and  George 
turned  to  him,  asking  him  to  speak  to  her  for  him. 

"  'I  can  do  nothing  there,'  the  postmaster  said.  'It's  the 
landlord's  business  to  set  it  straight,  and  if  Cenz  really  wants 
you  she  will  believe  you  herself.' 

"  'But  the  people  ?  To  have  all  the  people  thinking  of  one 
like  that!' 

"  'All  the  people  ?  Marry  Cenz  and  treat  her  mother  right, 
and  the  people  will  have  nothing  to  say.'  Then  the  post-master 
left  us. 

"After  the  post-master  was  gone,  I  lingered  a  little  so  as  to 
have  a  chance  to  talk  to  him.  When  he  began  to  beg  again  I 
said :  'I  wonder  that  you  are  so  anxious  now  to  save  your  honor, 
while  it  seemed  little  to  you  to  leave  the  girl,  or  what  might  be 
said  of  Jier/ 

"  'Do  you  too  think  me  a  scamp  ?'  he  asked. 

"  'I  don't  that,  but  is  it  worth  while  to  get  into  such  a  passion 
on  account  of  a  scamp?  Go  on,  George;  how  would  it  be  if  in- 
stead of  all  this  fuss  you  were  to  go  to  see  Cenz,  and  tell  her  all 
about  it  and  set  things  straight  with  lior  yourself.' 

"  'She'll  never  believe  me,'  he  said  despondently. 

"'Do  you  think  not?  Oh,  I  am  sure  that  at  tlie  very  first 
word  you  say  she  will  believe  you  and  forgive  you  and  everything 
will.be  well.  I  know  her.'  He  did  not  answer  and  then  I  got 
angry  and  said :  'What  is  the  use  of  worrying  about  you  ? 
Haven't  you  feet  and  a  tongue?    It's  your  affair,  not  mine.' 


KARL    DOMANIG.  65 

And  then  I  left  him,  though  I  did  say  an  Our  Father  for  him, 
for  I  still  had  hopes. 

"And  truly,  about  eight  o'clock  I  saw  George  taking  the  road 

up  toward  Cenz's  home. 


CHAPTER  V. 

IN  WHICH  THINGS  END  WELL. 

"This  was  on  Tuesday  of  Holy  Week,  and  then  of  course 
whoever  has  a  little  time  goes  to  church.  Cenz  and  her  mother 
had  gone  down  to  the  village  to  church,  and  there  was  no  one  at 
home  but  the  old  aunt.  But  she  received  George  much  more 
pleasantly  than  she  had  the  day  before. 

"  'One  can't  believe  that  Luis  Kloben — we  didn't  really  be- 
lieve what  he  said  after  you  told  us  that  it  was  not  so  yesterday, 
Cenz  herself  never  believed  it.     She  said  you  were  innocent.' 

"George  sat  down  and  said  nothing.  When  the  dog  began 
to  bark  again  the  aunt  shut  him  up. 

"I  believe  he  tore  your  breeches?'  she  said  and  then  she  got 
her  needle  and  thread  and  sat  down  in  front  of  George  and  hastily 
patched  up  the  torn  knee. 

"As  they  sat  there,  George  on  the  bench,  and  the  old  aunt 
on  the  floor  in  front  of  him,  Cenz  and  her  mother  came  in. 

"  'Oh,  George,'  said  Cenz,  'now  we  know  everything.  The 
landlord  told  us  that  you  are  innocent.  You  are  not  angry  at 
us,  are  you,  George?  It  is  true,  we  did  listen  to  his  story  too 
readily.' 

"And  then  the  mother  told  the  aunt  how  the  landlord  had 
waited  for  her  after  Mass  and  explained  everything.  The  aunt 
hastily  finished  her  sewing,  saying,  'You  see,  everything  comes  to 
light  in  time.' 

"But  George  sat  there  silent  and  thoughtful.  At  last  he 
held  out  his  hand  to  Cenz,  and  she  closed  both  hers  over  it  and 
leaned  against  him.  Then  he  threw  his  arms  around  her  neck 
and  the  thought  that  he  did  not  want  her  any  more  never  even 


66  THE  POSTILION  OF  SCHOENBERG. 

entered  his  mind.  'I  do  not  know,  how  it  was,  but  it  suddenly 
seemed  to  me  as  if  I  had  but  one  friend  in  all  the  world,  and 
that  was  Cenz.  I  would  not  have  given  her  up  for  anything 
or  any  one,' "  he  said  to  me  afterwards. 


"And  now  you  know  the  story,"  said  my  aunt. 

"Yes,  but  what  happened  later?"  I  asked.  "Did  George's 
doubts  come  back  and  was  he  sorry?" 

"Oh,  no,  never.  They  were  the  happiest  couple  possible. 
And  he  often  told  me  so  afterwards.  He  became  tax  collector 
and  had  to  travel  around  a  great  deal.  He  always  stopped  with 
us  when  he  passed  by,  and  then  he  would  tell,  me  how  he  grew 
to  love  and  value  Cenz  more  every  day.  Sometimes  he  would 
take  a  horn  and  sit  out  in  the  garden  and  blow  for  an  hour. 
He  would  not  get  tired  blowing,  and  no  more  would  the  post- 
master, God  rest  his  soul,  tire  listening  to  him. 

"To  be  sure  his  happiness  did  not  last  very  long.  They  had 
a  little  daughter  and  were  living  peacefully  and  pleasantly.  The 
old  father  was  with  him,  too,  but  his  son  went  to  the  grave  be- 
fore him.  George  was  caught  in  a  storm  and  got  pneumonia. 
Eight  days  later  he  was  dead. 

"But  I  remember  to  this  day  one  time  when  he  told  me  of 
Cenz  and  of  the  little  girl.  He  did  not  seem  as  genial  as  other 
times,  but  rather  thoughtful  and  sad,  particularly  when  ho  re- 
ferred to  the  old  story  of  his  homesickness.  'I  did  think  I  would 
have  to  live  there  because  it  was  my  home.  But  Cenz  has  made 
the  strange  place  home  for  mo,  if  one  may  call  it  that.  For  wo 
are  not  truly  at  home  anywhere.'  He  said  this  so  sadly  that  I 
tried  to  coax  him  out  of  it.  'No/  he  said,  *it  is  true.  The  hard- 
est thing  can  not  be  to  die,  when  we  know  that  it  is  better  where 
we  are  going.     Life  is  much  harder,  Mistress.' 

"And  indeed  I  have  often  thought  of  these  words — ^you  are 
still  young,  my  dear,  and  have  got  to  learn  that  we  are  all  only 
strangers  in  this  world." 


EVERILDA    VON    PUTZ, 


EvERiLDA  VON  PuTZ  was  born  November  21,  1843,  in  Munich. 
Her  parents  were  i^ippolyte  von  Klenze,  the  Royal  Bavarian 
Chamberlain,  and  Emily  von  Klenze,  whose  maiden  name  was 
Farmer.  The  mother,  as  will  be  seen  from  the  nam.e,  was  an 
Englishwoman.  The  writer's  grandfather  was  the  noted  architect, 
Leo  von  Klenze,  a  friend,  in  his  day,  of  Schinkel  and  Humboldt 
and  the  confidant  of  King  Louis  1.  of  Bavaria.  The  upheavals  of 
the  famous  year    1848,  and  various  journeys  to  her  mother's  native 


country,  made  a  deep  impression  on  the  child.  Her  parentage, 
associations,  and  training  made  her  familiar  from  her  earliest 
childhood  with  German,  French  and  English,  and  when  she  was 
but  nine  years  old  she  wrote  her  firsi  fairy  tale.  Her  first  novel, 
"  Gn'ifin  Eva,"  was  published  in  1870,  and  was  soon  followed  by 
two  others,  "  Mutter  und  Tochter,"    and  "  Der  Letzte  Schuss." 

On  November  10,  1873,  she  was  married  to  Captain  Karl  von 
Putz.  Her  happiness,  however,  was  soon  to  end  in  the  tragedy 
of  her  life.  Her  husband  died,  just  a  year  to  the  day  after  the 
marriage,  leaving  her  with  a  young  son,  born  on  the  7th  of  October. 
After  her  bereavement,  Frau  von  Piitz  returned  to  Munich,  where 
she  is  still  living  with  her  son  and  an  unmarried  sister.  The  great 
grief  which  came  upon  her  and  her  somewhat  delicate  health 
prevented  her  from  doing  as  much  literary  work  as  her  unusual 
abilities  and  opportunities  might  have  led  one  to  expect.  Never- 
theless, she  has  published  a  number  of  novels  and  Tyrolese  village 
tales  in  which  the  women,  especially,  are  portrayed  faithfully  and 
touchingly  Her  novels  are  :  "  Mutter  und  Sohn,"'  '■  Maria  Angela," 
"Christine's  Gluck,"  "  Aschenbrodl,"  '■  Mein  Johannes,'  "  Ver- 
sohnt,"  "Der  Liebe  Lohn"  and  "Der  Perlenschmuck."  Many  of  her 
stories,  besides  those  that  are  collected  in  book  form,  have 
appeared  in  periodicals.  Frau  von  Piitz  has  also  written  two 
historical  tales  for  the  young,  "  Die  Tochter  des  Marquis "  and 
"  Von  der  Pike  auf,"  and  travel  sketches,  but  considering  the  extent 
of  her  travels,  her  output  of  descriptive  writing  is  very  modest. 


Sacrifice. 

A  Tyrolese  Village  Tale. 
BY  EVERILDA  VON  PUTZ. 

The  moon  had  risen  behind  the  mountains  and  shone  brightly 
down  into  the  valley.  In  its  clear  light  the  ice-topped  mountains 
shimmered  above  the  snows  that  clung  to  them  lower  down. 

A  delicious  quiet  filled  forest  and  field,  broken  only  by  the 
rhythmic  murmur  of  the  mountain  stream,  singing  in  a  thousand 
varying  melodies  its  old  yet  ever  new  song. 

Nearly  every  light  in  the  village  was  out.  In  the  window  of 
one  house,  standing  a  little  back  from  the  road,  the  anxious  house- 
wife, however,  had  placed  a  lamp,  which  sent  out  its  feebly  guiding 
ray. 

On  the  bench  outside  of  the  house  a  twelve-year-old  girl  was 
sitting — the  only  child  of  the  house.  The  cool  wind  disheveled 
her  blond  hair  and  blew  it  over  her  face,  so  that  she  pushed  it 
back  every  now  and  then  impatiently.  The  child  was  listening 
anxiously.  "  Now  I  believe  I  hear  something,"  she  whispered  ex- 
citedly to  a  dark-robed  woman  who  stood  in  the  doorway,  and  then 
both  listened  again. 

From  away  off  came  the  sound  of  a  harsh  voice  singing  in  dis- 
cordant snatches. 

"  It's  he,"  burst  out  the  child,  as  she  sprang  to  her  feet.  "  You 
go  to  bed,  mother  dear;  he's  terrible  to-night — I  can  tell  it." 

"  No,  Louise,"  answered  the  woman  in  a  tired  tone.  "  I  am 
used  to  the  misery  and  I  must  stay.  Who  knows  what  might 
happen  if  I  didn't.  IMany  a  man  like  him  has  set  fire  to  himself 
and  to  the  house,  not  knowing  what  he  was  doing.    But  you  get 

59 


60  SACRIFICE. 

into  your  chamber.  Quick,  quick ! "  she  urged,  as  she  saw  a 
reeling  figure  approach  the  garden  fence. 

She  kissed  the  little  girl  hastily  and  pushed  her  into  the  house 
toward  the  stairs.  Then  she  went  to  meet  the  drunken  man  and 
took  hold  of  his  arm. 

There  was  a  look  of  scorn  in  her  still  handsome  face  as  she 
tried  to  get  him  to  let  go  the  fence,  to  which  he  was  clinging. 

"  Are  you  here,  Anna  ?  "  he  muttered,  thickly.  "  That's  sen- 
sible of  you — no,  it  isn't  sensible — it  is  some  of  your  cursed  spy- 
ing. I  know  you,  Anna.  You're  a  hypocrite — that's  what  you 
are,  and  you  don't  want  a  poor  man  to  have  any  fun — not  a 
thing — not  a  thing — would  you  leave  me — I  know  you —  " 

Silently  she  led  the  staggering  man  into  the  house.  Here, 
as  if  filled  with  disgust,  she  suddenly  let  go  of  him,  and  he  reeled 
backward  and  fell  on  to  the  bench. 

"  What's  come  over  you  that  you  treat  me  like  that  ?  "  he 
cried,  angrily,  and  struck  at  her  with  his  clenched  fist.  But  she 
dodged  deftly. 

"  Do  you  want  to  go  to  bed,  or  do  you  want  to  sit  there  all 
night  ?  "  she  asked,  and  her  black  eyes  glittered  in  her  pale  face. 

"  I  want  to  go  to  bed,"  he  hiccoughed,  defiantly.  Again  the 
woman  supported  him,  helped  him  into  the  chamber,  and  into 
his  bed.  In  a  moment  he  was  breathing  loudly  and  sunken  into 
a  drunken  stupor.  The  woman  stood  by  the  bed  and  looked  down 
at  him  with  burning  eyes. 

"  And  that  is  the  man  I  loved  once !  I  put  down  my  hands 
for  him  to  walk  on,  and  this  is  the  thanks  for  it  all."  She  pulled 
up  her  sleeves  and  looked  at  the  blue  and  black  marks  on  her 
arms.  "  He  beats  me  like  a  dog.  Oh,  if  I  were  only  dead  and 
buried,"  she  sobbed. 

"  No,  mother,"  a  small  voice  spoke  up,  and  two  soft  arms 
crept  around  the  neck  of  the  unhappy  woman.  "  You  must  not 
die ;  what  would  I  do  without  you  ?  " 

Anna  pressed  her  child  to  her  bosom  and  covered  the  little 
face  with  kisses.  "  You,  dear,  you  are  my  only  consolation,  my 
dear,  dear  darling.     No,  I  will  not  die  as  long  as  you  need  me. 


EVERILDA  VON  PtJTZ.  61 

Our  Lord  iritij  give  mo  the  strength  to  live  on  through  all  this 
misery." 

"  He  will  help,  mother,"  whispered  Louise,  and  gently  stroked 
her  mother's  thin  cheeks. 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?  "  she  asked  bitterly.  "  I  believe  He  has 
long  since  forgotten  me.  I  have  prayed  and  pleaded  so  long,  but 
it  has  done  no  good." 

"  0  mother,"  answered  the  child,  with  a  quivering  voice,  as 
she  leaned  her  face  against  that  of  her  desolate  mother,  "  we  must 
not  say  that." 

"  You  are  right,  my  darling.  And  I  do  not  mean  it  just  that 
way  either.  But  sometimes  I  feel  as  though  I  could  stand  it  no 
longer,  and  I  must  get  up  and  run  away  over  the  hills — ^just  to 
get  away,  away,  where  I  can  no  longer  hear  the  brawls,  the  noise." 

"  I'll  go  with  you,  mother,"  said  the  girl  decidedly.  Then 
suddenly  she  stopped,  and  added  slowly :  "  No ;  that  will  not  do. 
Who  would  take  care  of  poor  father  then  ?    He  would  be  all  alone." 

"  Then  both  of  us  must  stay,  I  suppose,"  the  mother  answered, 
with  a  wan  smile.  "  And  now  hurry  and  get  to  bed.  It  is  very 
late.    Good  night,  my  good  little  girl." 

Louise  ran  up  the  stairs  to  her  little  bedroom,  and  the  woman 
turned  to  her  own  bed,  which  stood  beside  her  husband's. 

The  lamp  had  gone  out.  But  the  moonlight  lay  silver  and 
brilliant  on  the  chamber  floor  and  fell  on  the  repulsive  figure  on 
the  bed.  With  open  mouth,  swollen  and  red  of  face,  thick  and 
labored  of  breath,  thus  was  he  sleeping  whom  Anna  had  once 
promised  to  love,  honor,  and  obey.  She  saw  him  still  as  he  had 
been  when  he  first  won  her  love — a  bright,  pleasant  young  man 
with  a  handsome  face — and  now,  0  heaven,  what  a  change ! 

She  shuddered.  With  unconquerable  aversion  she  turned  from 
him,  took  a  pillow  and  some  bed  clothes  and  carried  them  into  the 
sitting-room  on  to  the  long  house-bench.  Before  she  lay  down 
she  turned  her  weary  eyes  once  more  upon  the  crucifix  hanging  in 
the  corner  of  the  room :  "  My  God,  wilt  Thou  never  hear  me  ?  " 
she  whispered,  and  then  buried  her  face  in  her  pillow  and  sobbed 
herself  to  sleep. 


62  SACRIFICE. 

Up  in  her  little  room  Louise  was  still  standing  at  her  window. 
Her  young  heart  was  very  heavy.  She  did  not  know  for  whom  she 
was  most  sorry — for  her  father,  or  for  her  mother,  or  even  for 
herself.  To  have  to  be  ashamed  of  one's  father — could  anything 
be  more  bitter? 

She  thought  and  thought.  "  What  is  to  be  done  ?  How  can 
I  help  ? "  Her  eyes  followed  the  moonbeams  skyward.  "  God 
alone  can  help,"  she  whispered.  "  But  we,  too,  must  do  our  part 
in  gratitude  for  His  grace." 

Louise  rested  her  arms  meditatively  on  the  sill.  What  was  it 
the  priest  said  recently  of  the  sacrifices  which  the  saints  made  in 
order  to  save  souls?  How  they  prayed  and  fasted,  and  endured 
pain  and  suffering  in  order  to  save  souls  and  do  penance  for  the 
sins  of  others.  " '  Who  wants  to  save  a  soul,  must  suffer  for  it,' 
that's  M^hat  he  said,"  she  whispered. 

The  child  rested  her  little  head  on  both  hands.  "  Dear  God," 
she  said,  softly,  "  put  a  good  thought  into  my  mind  now."  And 
the  longer  she  reflected  the  more  quiet  she  became.  A  smile  lit  up 
her  lovely  little  face  as  she  turned  it  toward  heaven,  to  all  the  won- 
derful light  and  glory  that  illuminated  heaven  and  earth. 

"  I  just  know  what  I'll  do.  Do  Thou  bless  me,  dear  God,  so 
that  I  shall  do  it  right  and  do  it  with  all  my  might.  Now  I  made 
a  rime.  I  never  did  that  before.  I'm  sure  that  that's  a  good 
sign,"  and  full  of  her  new  thought  she  lay  down  with  a  happy 
smile  and  was  soon  sound  asleep. 

The  next  day  began  as  many  another  had.  Louise  and  her 
mother  had  long  since  had  breakfast  and  been  at  work  in  the 
garden,  the  stable,  and  the  house  when  the  man  himself  appeared, 
irritable  and  weary.  His  wife  brought  him  his  coffee,  took  the 
bread  out  of  the  table  drawer,  and  together  with  a  knife,  silently 
laid  it  down  beside  him — without  a  word  or  a  look  to  him. 

"  Huh,"  grumbled  her  husband,  testily,  after  the  first  mouth- 
ful.   "  What  kind  of  a  brew  is  this? " 

"  It  has  been  waiting  for  two  hours,"  answered  his  wife, 
sharply.     "  And,  of  course,  it  can't  be  as  good  as  it  was." 

"  Quit  your  talking,"  said  Florian,  roughly.  "  ^ly  head  aches." 


EVERILDA    VON  PUTZ.  63 

"  I  believe  that,"  said  Anna,  contemptuously  over  lier  shoulder 
as  she  turned  to  go  away.  "  The  condition  in  which  you  came 
home  last  night  again  is  a  sin  and  a  shame." 

"  Get  out  of  here,''  the  man  screamed  at  her.  And  then  he 
leaned  his  head  against  the  wall  and  tried  to  collect  his  thoughts. 

What  was  it  he  wanted  to  do  this  morning?  Yes,  he  remem- 
bered— but  what  could  a  fellow  do  with  such  a  head  ?  "  Anna  is 
right,"  he  thought,  heavily.  "  Yesterday  was  almost  too  much  for 
me.    To-day  I'll  stay  home.    Maybe,"  he  added,  for  safety's  sake. 

Noon  came,  and  found  the  man  still  sitting  in  the  same  place. 
He  had  slept  some  more  and  felt  better.  Louise  set  the  table, 
chattering  gaily.  She  told  her  father  how  many  eggs  she  had 
found  hidden  in  the  straw,  that  the  rosebuds  were  nearly  ready 
to  burst,  and  what  she  was  going  to  do  in  the  garden  this  afternoon. 

"  You're  a  busy  girl,"  said  her  father,  and  a  pleased  smile 
came  into  his  face  as  he  watched  her  flushed  little  cheeks.  "  You're 
always  glad  when  you  can  find  something  to  do,  isn't  it  so  ?  " 

He  was  a  good,  industrious  man  in  ordinary  life.  It  was 
only  drink  that  made  such  a  brute  of  him.  The  day  after  he  was 
always  very  sorry,  but  yet  he  was  too  weak  to  resist  the  evil  spell  of 
the  inn. 

He  had  loved  Anna  very  much.  She  was  from  Southern  Tyrol 
— dark,  with  wavy  black  hair  and  brilliant  black  eyes.  Her  emo- 
tions were  deep  and  vivid,  while  he  was  rather  phlegmatic  and  easy- 
going. He  could  not  see  why  she  could  not  forget  what  he  had 
done  the  day  before,  when  he  tried  to  make  up  the  next  day,  and 
why  she  should  consume  herself  in  silent  bitterness. 

Having  found  his  own  good  humor  again  he  would  have  liked 
a  pleasant  chat  with  his  wife  now.  But  she  was  cold  and  distant. 
Louise  was,  as  always,  amiable,  patient,  and  kind.  Never  an  ugly 
look  or  a  scornful  smile  from  her.  The  little  one,  he  thought, 
could  understand  that  even  a  good  man  may  sometimes  take  a 
glass  too  much. 

Sometimes  ?  Even  that  would  be  bad  enough — but  every  day  ? 
As  it  was  unpleasant  to  give  an  account  of  himself  at  this  point 
Florian  passed  it  over  as  lightly  as  possible. 


64  SACRIFICE. 

Anna  brought  in  the  huge  bowl  filled  with  kraut  and  noodles 
and  pork,  and  put  it  on  the  table.  It  was  the  favorite  dish,  and  the 
father  began  to  eat  heartily  and  soon  was  in  a  genial  mood.  Anna, 
too,  took  her  share,  but  Louise  refused  everything  save  a  piece  of 
bread  and  a  little  water. 

Her  parents  looked  at  her  in  astonishment.  But  Louise  said 
that  that  was  all  she  wanted. 

Each  went  to  his  particular  work  after  the  noon-day  dinner, 
and  the  day  closed  as  had  most  others — Florian  went  to  the  inn  and 
came  home  in  a  bad  way.  Louise,  up  in  her  little  chamber,  heard 
blows  and  curses  down  stairs,  and  her  heart  was  full  of  pain.  How 
good  her  father  used  to  be,  how  hard  he  used  to  work !  And  now 
bad  company  had  brought  him  to  this.  The  devil  of  drink  had 
taken  hold  of  him.  He  did  not  do  his  work,  and  everything  was 
going  to  ruin  on  the  place,  for  no  matter  how  hard  Louise  and  her 
mother  might  work,  the  strength  of  a  man  was  lacking  on  the 
little  farm. 

When  the  family  was  at  dinner  the  next  day  Louise  refused 
everything  again  except  bread  and  water. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  child  ?  "  the  mother  asked,  anxiously. 
"  See  how  pale  you  are.     Are  you  sick  ?  " 

"  No,  mother,  do  not  worry  yourself.  Nothing  is  wrong  with 
me." 

"  What  nonsense  is  this  ?  "  her  father  exclaimed,  angrily.  "  If 
you  are  well,  eat." 

"  I  may  not,  father." 

"  Is  that  so  ?  I'd  like  to  know  why  not  ?  Who  is  forbidding 
you  ?  "  the  man  asked,  sarcastically. 

Then  the  child  rose  and  stood  in  front  of  her  father.  Fearless 
and  unshadowed  her  blue  eyes  looked  at  him. 

"  I  may  not,"  she  said,  in  a  low^  voice,  "  because  I  have  prom- 
ised our  dear  Lord  that  as  long  as  you  come  home  at  night — you 
know  how,  father — and  swear,  and  make  my  poor  mother  cry,  I 
am  going  to  eat  nothing  but  bread  and  water.  I  want  to  suffer, 
so  God  will  not  punish  you." 

The  silence  of  death  was  in  the  room.  Anna  covered  her  face 


EVERILDA   VON  PUTZ.  65 

with  both  hands.  Florian  looked  fixedly  down  in  front  of  him 
upon  the  table.  His  face  became  dark  red,  and  then  he  suddenly 
threw  down  his  spoon,  rose,  and  left  the  house. 

Louise  looked  after  him  through  the  window.  Then  she  ran 
back  to  her  mother,  and  threw  her  arms  around  her  neck.  "  He 
has  the  rake,"  she  cried,  "  he  is  going  to  make  hay."  And  not 
only  that,  but  Florian  stayed  at  home  that  evening,  too. 

His  little  daughter,  who  was  most  hungry  by  this  time,  ate 
heartily,  and  half  ashamed,  half  regretfully,  Florian  watched  her 
slyly. 

What,  his  poor  child  meant  to  go  hungry  like  a  beggar  on  his 
account  ?  That  must  not  be.  Her  health,  in  the  end,  perhaps,  her 
life,  would  be  on  his  conscience.  And  what  would  the  house  be 
without  the  sweet  smile  and  the  young  voice  of  his  little  girl  ? 

And  how  she  did  try  now  to  please  her  father,  to  entertain 
him,  telling  him  all  sorts  of  things  that  happened  in  school,  giv- 
ing him  riddles  to  guess,  playing  games  with  him,  and  so  on. 
Florian  was  often  highly  amused,  and  even  the  fine,  severe  face 
of  his  wife  softened  into  an  occasional  smile. 

A  week  passed  like  this  in  peace  and  pleasantness,  when,  one 
unhappy  evening,  after  supper,  one  of  Florian's  public-house 
friends  came  in. 

"  God  be  with  you  here ! "  he  called  out,  and  lifted  his  shabby 
hat.  Anna  acknowledged  the  greeting  with  a  barely  noticeable  nod, 
helped  Louise  clear  the  table,  and  then  went  into  the  kitchen  with 
Louise  to  wash  the  dishes. 

"  She  likes  me  so  well  that  she  runs  away  from  me,"  said  the 
newcomer,  jeeringly.  "  Looks  rather  grouty  though.  What  is 
the  matter  with  you,  Flori?  Is  it  true  that  your  wife  will  not 
give  you  a  cent  and  hides  the  door  key  from  you  ?  I  just  stopped 
in  to  ask  if  you  did  not  want  to  go  along.  The  men  are  all  wait- 
ing for  you.  The  landlord  has  received  some  new  wine  from 
Hungary — a  good  one,  a  better  I  do  not  believe  you  ever  tasted. 
What  do  you  say?  Will  you  come?  Or  maybe  your  boss  won't 
permit  you  ?  " 

"  I  don't  have  to  ask  anybody's  permission/'  answered  Florian, 


66  SACRIFICE. 

angrily.  "  I  think  I  am  still  master  of  my  own  house.  But  for 
that  matter  it  would  be  her  way  to  make  me  do  the  minding." 

The  Uvo  in  the  kitchen  listened  anxiously.  They  heard 
Florian's  voice  in  the  hull,  then  the  outer  door  slammed,  and  he 
was  gone. 

"  Oh,  mother,"  the  child  called  out  in  a  trembling  voice,  and 
began  to  cry.  "  Are  there  really  people  so  bad  that  they  try  to 
make  others  bad  too  ?  " 

"  There  are  plenty  such  devils  in  human  form,  and  they  take 
away  every  hope  one  has,"  said  the  mother,  gloomily. 

Heavy  black  clouds  had  in  the  meantime  come  up.  Torn  by 
lightning  they  hung  over  the  mountains.  The  thunder  rolled 
and  rolled,  given  back  in  unending  echoes.  Loud  and  near,  then 
losing  itself  in  the  distance.  The  rain  poured  down  in  streams, 
the  roads  became  pools,  and  the  gutters  waterfalls. 

Louise  crouched  between  the  woodpile  and  the  house,  her 
eyes  fixed  unwaveringly  upon  the  blackness  in  front  of  her.  From 
time  to  time  the  lightning  glared  and  the  road  was  visible  for  a 
moment;  then  the  darkness  fell  again,  almost  like  a  tangible 
curtain,  and  impenetrable  darkness  covered  everything  be- 
fore the  child. 

"  Louise,  Louise,  where  are  you  ?  "  her  mother  called  anxiously. 

"  Here  I  am.  All  nice  and  dry,"  answered  the  child.  "  I  am 
watching  to  see  if  father  is  coming.  Please,  mother,  put  the  lamp 
back  into  the  window !  "  and  when  that  was  done  and  the  mother 
wanted  the  child  to  come  in,  she  begged  to  stay  where  she  was. 
"  Poor  father  will  be  wet  to  the  skin ;  don't  you  think  so,  mother  ?" 

"  Serves  him  right,"  thought  her  mother,  but  aloud  she  only 
said  coldly :   "  Maybe  so." 

It  was  very  late  at  night  when  the  heavy  step  of  the  drunken 
man  came  up  the  walk.  Under  his  rain-soaked  hat,  pressed  down 
over  his  forehead,  the  eyes  looked  sullen  and  ugly. 

The  downpour  of  rain  had  sobered  Flori  just  enough  to  put 
him  into  the  worst  possible  mood. 

"What  are  you  doing  here?"  he  bawled,  when  he  saw  the 
two  waiting  for  him.    "  Can  a  man  never  have  a  bit  of  peace  on 


EVERILDA    VON  PUTZ.  67 

account  of  you  ?  Do  you  have  to  mix  into  everything  that  isn't 
your  business  ?  Get  out,  get  away  with  you,  I  don't  need  you.  I 
guess  you,"  and  he  turned  to  Anna,  "  are  having  your  laugh  now 
because  the  flood  of  water  almost  carried  me  off." 

"  It's  your  own  fault,"  the  woman  answered,  shrugging  her 
shoulders.    "  Why  did  you  go  down  to  the  public  house  again  ?  " 

Furious  at  this  answer,  Florian  lurched  toward  her.  "  Be 
still,"  he  roared  at  her,  and  lifted  his  hand  to  strike  her.  But 
with  a  plaintive  cry  the  child  threw  herself  between  them  to  pro- 
tect her  mother,  and,  receiving  the  blow  hard  in  the  face,  she  fell 
to  the  ground — unconscious. 

"  For  God's  sake,"  cried  Florian,  suddenly  sobered  as  he  bent 
down  over  the  unconscious  child.  But  with  a  wild  gesture  his 
wife  pushed  him  back. 

"  You  are  not  worthy  to  touch  her,"  she  hissed  at  him,  and 
picking  up  the  girl  in  her  strong  arms  she  carried  her  up  the  stairs. 

Florian  stood  motionless  with  horror.  What  had  he  done? 
What  if  the  child  should  die  ?  With  a  groan  he  sank  on  his  knees, 
and  raising  his  hand  before  the  crucifix,  he  solemnly  vowed  never, 
never  again  to  yield  to  the  temptation  of  drink. 

Then  he  listened  strainedly  for  sounds  from  above.  Through 
the  board  floor  there  came  to  him  the  sound  of  faint  weeping,  and 
after  a  while  he  heard  a  weak  little  voice  speak.  That  was  Louise. 
"  God  be  praised,  she  is  still  living,"  he  said. 

After  a  little  while  Anna  came  down  to  the  kitchen  to  get  some 
water,  and  Flori  tiptoed  up  to  her. 

"  Anna,"  he  said,  timidly,  "  how  is  she  ?  " 

She  looked  at  him  with  glowing,  forbidding  eyes,  from  head  to 
foot,  and  then  turned  her  back  on  him  and  left  him  standing  there. 

That  was  a  long,  sad  night,  and  Flori  had  plenty  of  time  for 
reflection,  for  remorse,  and  for  good  resolutions. 

When  day  dawned  he  could  stand  it  no  longer.  In  his  bare 
feet  he  crept  up  to  Louise's  chamber.  On  account  of  the  heat  the 
door  was  half  open.  In  the  gray  light  Flori  saw  his  wife  lying 
on  the  bed,  fully  dressed,  holding  the  sleeping  child  in  her  arms. 
A  great  weight  fell  from  the  heart  of  the  watcher.    No  music  on 


68  SACRIFICE. 

earth  could  have  been  ])l('asanter  to  liim  than  the  gentle  breathing 
oi"  the  two  sleepers.  Florian  liinisell',  exhausted  by  the  emotions 
of  the  night,  then  fell  asleep,  and  did  not  wake  till  nearly  noon. 
At  first  he  did  not  remember  what  had  happened,  but  suddenly  it 
all  came  over  him,  and  ho  felt  a  sort  of  horror  of  himself. 

Then  he  heard  Louise's  voice  in  the  living-room.  "  He  is  still 
sleeping  soundly,  mother,  but  when  he  gets  up  I'll  go  up  to  my 
chamber,  shouldn't  I  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Anna's  voice,  unyieldingly.     "  You'll  stay  here." 

'^  Mother,  please  let  me  go.  I  wouldn't  like  to  have  father 
see  me." 

"  You  heard  what  I  said,"  said  the  mother, 

"Is  the  poor  little  thing  afraid  of  me?"  the  man  listening 
thought  to  himself.  "  I  will  show  her  that  in  all  her  life  she 
never  need  be  afraid  of  me  again."  Then  he  dressed  himself 
quickly,  and  hesitatingly  WTut  out  into  the  living-room. 

The  storm  had  spent  itself.  Only  a  few  light  clouds  still 
hung  around  the  mountain  tops.  The  sunshine  came  pleasantly 
through  the  windows,  and  where  the  little  red  curtains  were  drawn 
it  lay  upon  the  floor  in  rosy  patches. 

In  the  alcove  at  the  table  laid  for  the  noon-day  meal  his  wife 
and  child  were  sitting.  The  little  one  had  Just  filled  the  soup- 
plates  for  her  parents,  but  her  own  remained  empty. 

"  Good  day,  father,"  came  her  cheerful  greeting.  "  Did  you 
sleep  well  ?  Sit  down  here  with  us  now  or  else  your  soup  will  get 
cold." 

Slowly  Florian  sat  down.  "  How  are  you,  Louise  ?  "  he  asked 
awkwardly.  "  I  am  very  sorry  that  I  struck  you  yesterday  as  I 
did.    Did  it  hurt  you  ?  " 

"  Better  hurt  me  than  mother,"  the  child  answered  in  a  low 
voice,  and  Florian  dropped  his  head  shamefacedly. 

He  would  have  liked  to  ask  his  wife's  forgiveness,  too,  but  she 
sat  there  without  a  word,  without  even  a  look  of  her  great  black 
eyes  for  him,  cold  and  distant.  All  his  courage  left  him,  and  a 
certain  sullen  defiance  took  its  place. 

But  Louise,  too,  pleasant  as  her  voice  sounded,  avoided  meet- 


EVERILDA   VON  PUTZ.  69 

ing  his  eyes.  She  chattered  of  all  sorts  of  things,  but  kept  her 
head  turned  away  so  that  barely  her  profile  was  in  view.  And 
her  plate  remained  empty.  All  she  had  in  her  hand  was  a  little 
piece  of  black  bread,  from  which  she  broke  bits,  at  which  she 
nibbled. 

Florian  no  longer  heard  her  words — the  poor  child  was  going 
hungry  again  on  his  account.  "  That  God  may  not  punish  me," 
was  his  sole  thought. 

"  Louise,"  he  said  at  last,  in  a  broken  voice,  "  come  here  to 
me." 

She  startled  visibly  and  hesitated. 

The  man  rose  from  the  table  and  went  and  sat  down  on  the 
bench  against  the  wall.  "  Louise,  come  here  to  me,"  he  repeated, 
gently. 

Obediently  the  child  rose  and  came  toward  him  slowly,  care- 
fully hiding  the  right  side  of  her  face  with  her  hand. 

"  Have  you  a  toothache  ?  " 

"  No,  father,  my  cheek  is  only  sw^ollen." 

Florian  took  her  hand  away.  The  whole  side  of  her  face  was 
swollen  and  the  eye  blue  and  black. 

The  wife  rose  too,  and  stood  very  straight,  looking  question- 
ingly,  almost  threateningly,  at  her  husband.  But  he  saw  nothing 
but  the  pitifully  disfigured  face  of  the  child  before  him. 

"  For  heaven's  sake — my  child — did  I — did  I — do  that  ?  "  he 
stammered. 

"  Father,"  the  girl  cried  out,  and  laid  her  head  upon  his 
shoulder.    "  I  am  glad  to  suffer  this,  too,  for  you." 

Great  sobs  shook  Florian.  "  Forgive  me,  poor  child — forgive 
me !  It  shall  never  happen  again,  I  promise  you.  And  Anna,  you 
forgive  me  too  ?  "  He  stretched  out  his  hand  toward  her.  She 
would  have  liked  to  have  pushed  it  away,  but  was  ashamed  to  do 
so  before  her  child,  who  was  smiling  happily  at  her  now. 

So  Anna  laid  her  cold  fingers  in  her  husband's  right  hand. 
He  closed  his  hand  over  hers  tenderly,  saying,  "  An  evil  spirit 
has  held  me.  Help  me  pray  now,  that  I  may  be  different  here- 
after." 


70  SACRIFICE. 

And  he  vras  different.  He  worked  for  two,  as  if  to  make  up 
for  what  he  had  neglected.  Storms  of  temptation  still  assailed 
him,  but  he  fought  through  them  manfully.  Louise  would  have 
been  very  happy  now  if  it  had  not  been  for  her  mother's  attitude. 
It  was  as  if  all  the  love  which  the  ardent-tempered  woman  had 
had  for  her  husband  had  been  spent.  The  pain  of  his  brutal 
treatment  of  her  had  been  too  deep — she  could  not  forget  it  and 
did  not  want  to  forgive  it. 

Once  Louise  put  her  arm  around  her  mother's  neck,  "  Mother, 
can't  you  love  father  a  little  bit,"  she  whispered.  "  He  is  so 
good  now." 

Then  Anna  pushed  the  girl  away  roughly  as  she  never  had 
before.  "  What  I  do  does  not  concern  you,"  she  said  sharply,  and 
Louise  did  not  dare  to  put  the  question  again. 

Florian  himself  often  looked  pleadingly  at  his  wife,  but  she 
turned  away  as  if  he  were  not  on  earth. 

:ff  H:  :i:  Us  ^ 

A  year  had  passed.  Everything  on  the  little  farm  was  in 
fine  condition.  Florian  had  remained  steadfast  and  become  a 
model  in  every  way.  And  yet  all  was  not  well  with  him.  He 
often  looked  faint  and  pale  and  sutfered  constantly  from  peculiar 
pains  in  his  tongue,  which  made  it  hard  for  him  to  eat  or  to  talk. 

At  last,  after  trying  in  vain  the  quack  remedies  of  a  peasant 
doctor,  he  went  to  a  regular  physician.  This  man  advised  him  to 
go  to  Innsbruck  to  the  hospital  at  once,  and  so  urgent  was  he 
that  Florian  set  out  the  next  morning  early.  An  hour's  walk, 
three  hours  on  the  train,  and  then  he  w^ould  be  at  the  end  of  his 
journey. 

Anna  did  not  close  an  eye  that  night.  And  yet  when  her  hus- 
band held  out  his  hand  for  the  parting  she  only  said,  "  Good-by. 
I  hope  you  will  be  well  soon." 

Her  husband  smiled  sadly  and  turned  to  go,  accompanied  by 
Louise,  who  insisted  on  walking  part  of  the  way  with  him. 

Anna  stood  at  the  door  a  while  and  looked  after  them.  She 
was  sorry  that  she  had  been  so  heartless — was  not  llie  poor  fellow 
on  his  way  to  the  hospital.     Suddenly  a  great  fear  came  over 


EVERILDA  VON  PUTZ.  71 

her:  How  many  there  were  who  never  came  back  from  the 
hospital.  If  something  should  happen  to  Florian — if  she  should 
not  see  him  again ! 

Ah ! — she  had  not  thought  of  that.  With  a  deep  sigh  she  ran 
down  the  steps  after  the  two.  They  were  a  long  way  down  the 
road.  But  one  more  word  she  must  have,  and  give  him  in  return 
a  sign  of  love  to  cheer  him  on  his  hard  journey.  For  he  was  her 
husband  after  all,  and  the  father  of  her  child. 

She  waved  her  kerchief,  and  tried  to  call,  but  the  sound  stuck 
in  her  throat,  and  the  two  went  on  and  on. 

Now  they  stood  still  and  Florian  stooped  and  kissed  the  child 
again  and  again.  The  little  one  turned  to  go  back,  slowly  stopping 
and  waving  her  hand  every  few  steps,  while  he,  too,  stopped  to 
wave  in  answer. 

Then  came  a  loud,  shrill  cry :   "  Flori,  Flori !" 

The  man  heard,  and  looked  up,  and  swoing  his  hat  hard.  He 
called  too,  but  the  sound  was  weak  and  thick,  and  the  woman 
standing  all  alone  above  did  not  hear  it. 

^  :K  ^  ^  H( 

Florian  is  in  the  operating-room  of  the  Innsbruck  Hospital. 
He  knows  that  the  operation  must  be  performed  if  be  wishes  to 
save  his  life  at  all,  and  for  his  child's  sake  he  has  consented. 

A  Sister  of  Charity  is  standing  beside  him  murmuring  words 
of  pious  consolation,  and  giving  him  a  little  crucifix,  for  he  has 
asked  for  one. 

The  physician  and  surgeon  are  standing  to  one  side  in  con- 
sultation. 

Now  the  surgeon  steps  up  to  Florian  and  begins  to  talk  to 
him.  "  My  dear  man,"  he  says,  kindly.  "  You  know  that  we  will 
have  to  cut  off  most  of  your  tongue,  and  you  will  probably  be 
unable  to  speak  hereafter — " 

Florian  started  and  looked  at  him  with  horror.  "  We  must 
have  courage,"  the  surgeon  continued,  soothingly.  "  Everything 
will  probably  pass  off  well,  but  if  you  have  something  more  that 
you  wish  especially  to  say,  better  say  it  now.  It  may  be  that  you 
can  not  say  it  afterward." 


72  SACRIFICE. 

For  a  few  moments  Florian  gazed  at  the  cross  in  his  hand, 
then  raising  his  eyes  to  heaven,  he  said: 

"  Praised  be  Jesus  Christ,"  slowly  and  solemnly,  and  reverently 
bowing  his  head. 

The  surgeon  made  a  sign  to  the  physician  and  turned  with 
moist  eyes  to  his  instrument-case. 

It  was  late  in  autumn  when  the  lone  figure  of  a  man  came 
up  the  highway  to  the  village.  The  sky  is  as  blue  as  in  the  mid- 
summer; delicate  silvery  webs  float  in  the  soft  air;  the  trees  and 
bushes  glow  in  every  shade  of  color. 

The  man  stops  often  to  breathe  deeply.  Oh,  this  is  a  different 
air  from  that  which  one  breathes  in  the  hospital.  Florian  forbade 
his  dear  ones  to  visit  him.  He  feared  the  shock  for  them.  Two 
days  before  he  left  the  hospital  he  wrote  and  told  them  the  truth 
for  the  first  time.  In  his  awkward  and  clumsy  writing  he  told 
them  that  the  operation  was  successful,  but  that  he  would  be 
unable  to  talk  for  the  rest  of  his  life.  This  was  a  great  misfortune, 
to  be  sure,  but  he  would  try  to  bear  it  as  a  penance.  Louise  would 
never  have  to  go  hungry  again  for  his  sake,  now,  but  everything  as 
God  wills. 

They  must  have  gotten  the  letter  by  this  time  and  must  know 
what  has  happened. 

Softly  Florian  went  up  the  garden  path  and  peeped  through 
the  window  into  the  living-room. 

There  they  knelt,  side  by  side,  his  wife  and  his  child,  reciting 
the  Rosary  aloud.     He  knew  they  were  praying  for  him. 

His  shadow  fell  on  the  floor  and  Louise  looked  up.  A  cry,  "  It 
is  father,"  and  then  she  sprang  to  her  feet  and  fairly  flew  out  and 
clung  to  him  sobbing  and  murmuring  endearments.  He  gently 
stroked  her  blond  hair  and  looked  at  her — dumb. 

Anna,  too,  had  risen — there  she  stood  as  if  rooted,  her  feet 
like  lead,  her  heart  beating  in  heavy  thumps.  Now  her  husband 
entered.  Silently,  but  with  an  unspeakably  sad  look,  he  held  out 
his  hand  to  her.  Then  something  rose  hot  and  conquering  in  her 
heartj  a  flood  of  the  old  warm  love  melted  the  ice  that  had  crusted 


EVERILDA   VON  PUTZ.  73 

over  her  feeling  for  liim,  and  with  a  smothered  cry  she  clasped  her 
arms  about  his  neck.  "  Flori/'  she  stammered,  "  my  dear,  good 
Flori.    How  you  must  have  suffered  !  " 

The  man  sank  down  on  a  chair  and  leaned  his  head  against 
her  shoulder.  She  caressed  him  and  stroked  his  hair.  The  old, 
sweet  time  of  their  first  love  seemed  to  have  come  back  to  them. 
And  Louise  knelt  down  beside  her  father  and  kissed  his  hands 
in  sheer  joy,  though  she  wept  the  while. 

Everything  was  forgotten  now — all  the  pain,  the  misery — the 
disgrace.    Nothing  remained  but  his  affliction  and  their  love. 
***** 

A  singular  life  now  developed  itself  for  these  three.  The  wife, 
passionately  atoning,  living  only  for  her  hus1)and  and  child; 
Florian  heroically  penitent,  yet  happy  in  the  love  of  his  own, 
courageous  and  active;  Louise,  the  light  of  the  house,  smiling, 
cheerful,  the  consolation  and  the  pride  of  her  parents. 

The  tears  and  the  sacrifice  of  her  young  life,  however,  God  and 
the  angels  had  counted  and  rewarded. 


^^S.^'-'^'V, 


FERDINANDE  BARONESS  VON   BRACKEL. 


This  writer  was  born  November  24,  1835.  at  Castle  Welda, 
near  Warburg,  in  Westphalia.  She  is  the  daughter  of  a  long  line 
of  noble  ancestors  and  has  done  honor  to  her  house  by  her  gifts 
as  a  writer,  even  as  her  ancestors  have  honored  the  name  by 
deeds  of  valor  and  statesmanship.  She  was  educated,  step  by 
step,  along  with  her  brothers,  by  the  priest  of  the  Castle  village. 
In  this  way  her  mental  training  was  far  beyond  what  was  generally 
granted  girls  in  the  days  of  her  youth.     Thus  it  is  that,  in  addition 


to  her  great  natural  talents,  her  books  show  a  remarkable  erudition 
and  a  ripe  judgment.  But  it  must  be  remembered  that  she  gave 
her  talents  time  to  ripen.  She  did  not  publish  anything  until 
1873.  and  then  but  a  small  volume  of  verse.  However.  th'=> 
small  volume  has  run  through  four  editions.  Her  first  novel,  "  Die 
Tochter  des  Kunstreiters,"  followed  two  years  later,  when  the 
writer  was  forty  years  old.  It  made  her  famous  at  one  stroke. 
The  theme  is  not  new,  yet  the  treatment  of  the  psychological 
aspects  of  the  story  is  so  powerful  that  the  interest  never  flags. 
This  novel  was  published  in  English  under  the  title  of  "The  Circus 
Rider's  Daughter,"  and  ran  through  a  number  of  editions  in  a  short 
time. 

At  the  same  time  there  appeared  ••  Heinrich  Findelkind,"  a  story 
for  the  young.  This  was  followed  by  two  novels,  "  Nicht  wie  alle 
Andern  "  and  "Aus  Fernen  Landen."  In  1878  came  her  romance, 
"  Daniella,"  which  is  considered  her  best  work.  Her  other  novels 
which  appeared  during  the  next  twenty  years  have  all  been  well 
received  and  passed  through  several  editions:  "Am  Haidstock," 
(translated  into  English  with  the  title  "  The  Fatal  Beacon,") 
"  Prinzess  Aba,"  "  Der  Spinnlehrer  von  Carrara,"  "  Vom  alten 
Stamm,"  "  Im  Streit  der  Zeit." 

F.  V.  BrackePs  style  is  clear  and  fresh,  whether  the  characters 
she  presents  move  in  narrow  circles,  or  in  the  broader  fields  of 
life.  She  has  always  been  true  to  the  bent  of  her  own  clear 
intellect,  and  has  brought  problems  into  consideration  in  her 
writings  which  are  rarely  touched  by  women  novelists. 

She  lives  part  of  the  time  with  her  widowed  brother  in  Cassel, 
and  part  of  the  time  in  her  native  Castle  Welda.  Her  latest 
book  is  a  volume  of  short  stories,  one  of  which,  "Just  a  Simple 
Story,"  follows  this  sketch. 


?ust  a  Simple  Storp. 

BY    FERDINANDE    VON    BRACKEL. 
I. 

THE  ADVENT  OF  ROTTRAUT. 

"  What,  another  girl  ?  "  said  the  Baron,  as  he  stood  at  the 
cradle  and  gave  a  disappointed  look  at  the  little  thing  that  lay  with 
tight  fists,  its  crumpled  face  half  hidden.  "  And  the  child  seems 
dreadfully  small  to  me,  nurse.  It  is  hardly  to  be  found  in  the  pil- 
lows.   Is  it  a  real  healthy  baby?"' 

"  Indeed,  I  think  it  is,  sir.  But  it  is  not  at  all  like  the  other 
children,  I  did  not  care  to  show  her  to  my  lady,  for  she  is  so 
small.     But  then  she  has  time  enough  to  grow." 

"  Papa,  may  we  see  little  sister  ?  "  came  children's  voices  from 
the  outside. 

The  father  opened  the  door.  "  Easy,  easy !  "  he  said,  warn- 
ingly,  and  three  little  girls  from  four  to  eight  years  old  came  tip- 
toeing into  the  room,  looking  wide-eyed  at  the  cradle. 

"  Were  we  all  so  ugly,  too  ?  "  asked  the  second  eldest,  after  a 
few  moments  of  astonished  survey,  turning  her  pretty  face  to  her 
father,  while  the  other  two  were  still  watching  the  tiny  stranger  in 
mute  curiosity, 

"  Little  babies  are  never  pretty,"  said  the  father,  soothingly. 

"  Mamma  always  says  that  I  was  pretty  at  the  very  beginning," 
the  oldest  one  said,  full  of  the  consciousness  of  her  own  charms. 
Eosy-cheeked,  regular  of  feature,  yellow-haired,  and  brilliant-eyed 
as  she  was,  it  did  not  seem,  indeed,  that  she  could  ever  have  been 
anything  but  pleasant  to  look  upon. 

"  What  a  funny  nose  she  has ! "  said  the  second  one  again. 
"  Just  look,  papa,  how  it  turns  up." 

77 


78  JUST  A   SIMPLE   STORY. 

"  Take  care  of  your  own  nose,  miss,"  said  the  nurse,  who, 
after  proper  nurse-fashion,  took  the  part  of  the  youngest  arrivah 
"  Your  nose  will  be  so  long  some  day  that  you'll  be  glad  enough 
to  give  her  a  piece  of  it  if  ycr^  could." 

"  People  with  large  noses  appear  intelligent,"  said  the  father 
consolingly  to  the  offended  second  eldest. 

"  Why,  papa,  I  believe  little  sister's  hair  is  red,"  the  oldest 
began  her  critique  again.    "  Xone  of  us  had  red  hair! " 

"  Sister  is  opening  her  eyes  !  Sister  is  smiling !  "  called  out  the 
youngest,  as  the  little  one  stretched  its  tiny  fists  across  its  face, 
opened  its  blinky  little  eyes,  and  pulled  up  its  mouth  so  that  it 
seemed  as  if  it  were  really  smiling. 

"  0  papa,"  said  the  children,  in  a  chorus,  "  look  what  a  big 
mouth  she  has.    It  reaches  to  her  ears." 

"  Xow  be  still,  children,"  said  the  nurse,  reprovingly.  "  You 
have  waked  up  little  sister.  She's  a  smart  little  thing,  just  the 
same.  See,  she's  laughing  at  3'our  nonsense.  When  she  grows  up 
she  will  probably  be  much  more  beautiful  that  the  rest  of  you  and 
will  marry  a  prince,  and  then  where  will  you  be?  " 

Just  then  the  doctor  entered,  and  the  children's  attention  was 
diverted  from  the  queer  little  sister,  for,  instead  of  the  regular 
family  physician,  his  assistant  had  come  on  account  of  the  old  doc- 
tor's illness.  The  new  doctor,  who  was  still  a  very  young  man,  was 
not  only  a  stranger  to  them,  but  he  was  somewhat  crippled,  an  ac- 
cident in  his  childhood  having  caused  an  injury  to  his  spine.  His 
face  was  pale  and  rather  thin,  as  is  often  noticeable  in  cripples. 
But  the  eyes  were  large  and  fine,  and  the  symmetrical  head  led  one 
to  think  that  he  must  possess  unusual  intelligence.  He  had,  more- 
over, a  look  of  settled  melancholy,  though  his  expression  when 
speaking  was  most  pleasant  and  kindly. 

After  he  had  said  a  few  words  to  the  Baron,  he  stepped  to  the 
cradle  and  looked  at  the  child. 

"Do  you  really  think  the  child  can  live?  There  is  nothing 
wrong  with  her,  is  there  ?  "  asked  the  anxious  father,  while  the 
physician  examined  the  tiny  being. 

"  I  do  not  find  anj'thing  that  points  to  any  defect,"  answered 


FERDINANDS    VON   BRACKED.  79 

the  physician,  "  and  witli  tlio  good  care  " — turning  to  the  nurse — 
"which  she  will  undoubtedly  have,  1  am  sure  she  will  grow  and 
thrive  splendidly." 

The  old  nurse  looked  at  him  gratefully. 

"  A  wonderfully  plain  little  lady,"  said  the  father.  "  She  will 
have  to  change  considerahly  if  she  expects  to  make  conquests  some 
day.    What  color  are  her  eyes,  nurse  ?    I  believe  they  are  blue." 

"  Brown,"  said  the  nurse. 

"  But  I  see  distinctly  this  eye  is  blue." 

The  physician  bent  over  the  child  again  and  looked  at  it. 

"  The  little  one  has,  so  far  as  I  can  see  now,  different  colored 
eyes — one  is  brown  and  one  is  blue  " — 

"What!  That,  too?  Why,  that  is  a  terrible  state  of  things 
for  a  girl,"  said  the  father.  "  She  is  a  regular  child  of  misfortune. 
If  she  were  but  a  boy ! " 

"  One  can't  tell  that  yet,"  said  the  nurse  again.  "  Just  see  what 
a  jolly  face  she  has  even  now." 

"  She  will  need  to  have  something  to  offset  the  rest  of  her." 

"  What  shall  we  call  the  little  lady  of  the  red  hair  ?  "  said  the 
Baron  again. 

"  Call  her  Eottraut.  If  she  is  sweet  and  loving  every  one  will 
forget  her  red  hair,"  said  the  doctor. 

And  thus  the  little  lady  was  called,  for  in  the  old  German 
name  Traut  means  loving  and  true,  and  Rot  red. 


It  was  many  years  later.  The  little  girls  were  all  young  ladies, 
even  the  youngest  one  with  the  red  hair  and  the  turned-up  nose. 

"  I  am  really  grown-up,  and  a  young  lady.  I  have  even  been  at 
a  number  of  balls.  Just  ask  mamma,  doctor,"  she  added,  for  there 
seemed  to  be  a  doubt  in  the  eyes  of  her  listener. 

The  man  to  whom  she  was  speaking  was  the  same  physician 
who  had  stood  at  her  cradle,  now  a  trusted  and  noted  practitioner. 
After  the  death  of  the  old  doctoi^e  came  into  most  of  his  prac- 
tise, that  of  the  Baron's  family  included.  The  nurse  liked  him 
because  he  managed  to  persuade  her  into  his  way  of  thinking  with- 


80  JUST  A   SIMPLE  STORY. 

out  antagonizing  her.  Between  them  they  brought  up  the  dainty 
little  girl. 

"  There  is  little  of  her/'  the  nurse  was  wont  to  say,  "  but  what 
there  is  is  jolly  and  good  and  contented.  Her  off-colored  eyes 
see  nothing  but  the  pleasant  side  of  things." 

Although  her  mother  sighed  very  often  when  she  looked  at  the 
little  creature,  and  considered,  with  some  dismay,  her  possible 
future,  the  physician  in  whom  many  trusted  and  believed  was  de- 
lighted at  the  affection  the  child  seem  to  have  for  him.  The 
pleasant  little  face  was  full  of  life  and  vivacity,  and  even  her 
parents  observed  what  delight  went  with  her  presence. 

"  Rottraut  always  thinks  of  something  jolly,"  her  sisters  said 
of  her,  "  and  the  teachers  like  her  best.  For  even  when  she  does 
not  know  anything  she  has  some  answer  that  makes  them  laugh, 
and  they  do  not  scold  her,  and  they  like  her  better  even  than  Ger- 
trude, who  is  so  much  smarter." 

Gertrude's  nose  had  really  become  a  little  too  long,  but  she  had 
an  air  of  brightness  and  intelligence,  and  people  called  her  "  dis- 
tinguished." Elsie,  the  oldest,  was  beautiful,  even  as  she  had  been 
when  a  child,  and  no  one  thought  of  what  she  knew  or  did  not  know 
when  he  looked  at  her.  Lisa,  the  third,  had  a  healthy  bloom  that 
was  exceedingly  pretty,  though  she  was  hardly  a  beauty,  and  it 
was  said  of  her  that  she  would  be  an  excellent  wife  some  day.  Of 
the  fourth,  however,  people  said  but  little,  or  if  they  did,  and  meant 
to  be  kind,  they  said  that  children  change  a  great  deal  as  they 
grow  up. 

Now  she  was  grown,  indeed,  but  was  very  little  changed ;  so  even 
the  doctor,  who  was  used  to  the  irregularities  of  her  face,  had  to 
admit.  It  came  home  to  him  particularly  just  now,  after  his  re- 
turn from  a  stay  of  several  months  spent  at  a  university  in  special 
studies.  It  astonished  him,  too,  to  see  the  delight  she  evidently 
took  in  society.  He  himself  never  went  out  to  social  affairs  be- 
cause of  his  deformity,  and  for  her,  too,  he  feared  that  the  rebuffs 
that  come  to  plainness  and  unattractiveness  would  destroy  her 
sunny  disposition.  He  could  not  understand  how  her  parents 
could  expose  her  to  the  chance  of  experiences  which  are  always 


FERDINANDS    VON   BRAGKEL.  81 

SO  much  more  sad  and  bitter  for  a  woman  than  for  a  man.  But  it 
had  happened,  and  there  she  sat  and  laughed  the  same  as  ever,  and 
talked  even  more  gaily. 

'•'  I'll  tell  you  how  it  is,  doctor — or  must  I  call  you  professor, 


now 


V" 


He  shook  his  head. 

"  But  I  would  like  to  so  much,"  she  persisted.  "  You  see,  I 
always  have  a  better  time  than  the  others.  If  I  were  good-looking 
I  would  have  to  spend  two  or  three  more  years  studying,  for  Elsie 
does  not  care  to  have  so  many  younger  sisters  going  out  with  her. 
But  mamma  so  often  complained  of  staying  at  home  on  my  account 
that  the  other  girls  found  it  uncomfortable,  and  at  last  they  asked 
that  I  be  taken  along.  It  did  not  make  any  difference,  being  only 
me,  for  they  did  not  think  that  I  would  take  any  of  their  dances 
from  them.  So  I  have  gone  to  a  number  of  balls  and  have  come 
out  much  younger  than  my  sisters  did." 

"  And  you  enjoyed  yourself?  "  the  doctor  asked,  still  dubious. 

"  Of  course  I  enjoyed  myself.  Did  not  old  nurse  always  say 
that  I  could  please  anybody  ?  "  she  asked,  roguishly.  "  If  any  one 
likes  brown  eyes  I  look  at  him  with  my  right  eye;  if  he  likes  blue, 
I  let  him  gaze  into  my  left.  There  were  many  girls  there  who  did 
not  dance,  and  I  did  not  either  at  first.  But  I  had  my  own  special 
joke.  It  pleased  my  sisters  so  to  have  people  ask  who  I  was,  and 
then  have  them  remark  that  1  do  not  look  a  bit  like  the  other 
girls !  Once  I  heard  a  little  lieutenant  asking  Elsie,  '  Who 
is  that  wonderful  red  Aurora  over  there?'  and  then  see  him 
wilt  when  he  heard  that  it  was  her  sister.  Afterward  he  had  to 
take  me  in  to  dinner.  I  believe  he  could  not  see  straight  for  a  few 
moments,  he  was  so  frightened.  But  I  consoled  him.  '  Aurora 
always  precedes  the  light,'  I  said.  He  became  very  red,  a  regular 
blush  of  dawn,  and  stammered  all  sorts  of  apologies,  but  when  I 
laughed  he  finally  laughed,  too,  and  we  had  a  very  pleasant  time 
together  after  that.  At  the  next  ball  he  came  to  me  right  in  the 
beginning  and  we  had  three  dances  together.  Think  of  it,  doctor, 
three  dances !  But  don't  be  surprised.  The  belles  had  no  wish  to 
dance  with  him  because  he  is  so  little  and  still  so  young,  so  that 


82  JUST  A   SIMPLE   STORY. 

we  two  had  a  very  nice  time  without  any  one  bothering.  He  is  the 
nicest,  the  very  nicest  little  lieutenant  that  there  ever,  ever  was  " — 

"  If  you  enjoy  going  out  so  much  I  am  afraid  that  the  plan  I 
was  thinking  of  will  not  please  you,"  interrupted  the  doctor. 
During  all  her  chatter  he  seemed  to  be  thinking  deeply. 

Just  now  he  was  reflecting  how  often  people  who  have  the  very 
best  intentions  in  the  world  do  the  wrong  thing  when  they  most 
wish  to  do  the  right,  by  interfering  in  the  affairs  of  their  fellow- 
beings.  Besides  that,  he  had  another  reason,  and  for  a  moment  his 
thoughts  dwelt  somewhat  savagely  on  the  "  very  nicest  little 
lieutenant."' 

The  Baron  had  risen  to  a  high  government  position.  But  the 
double  duties  of  his  office  and  of  the  life  necessitated  by  his  daugh- 
ters being  such  prominent  members  of  society,  had  been  very  hard 
upon  the  aging  man,  who  was  now  somewhat  ailing  and  run  down. 
A  furlough  'seemed  immediately  necessary.  Foreign  travel  was 
suggested,  but  the  Baron  protested  that  at  present  he  could  not 
afford  it.  He  would  go  to  his  estate.  There  was  quiet  there,  too 
much  quiet,  though  it  was  only  a  few  miles  away.  Then  the  doctor 
thought  it  might  be  well  if  he  took  his  youngest  daughter  along 
for  company,  the  underlying  idea  being  that  the  girl  herself  would 
be  happier  away  from  the  society  that  would  but  snub  her. 

But  now  the  doctor  began  to  feel  very  uncomfortable.  If  she 
found  this  society  so  diverting  would  she  want  to  leave  it?  Diffi- 
dently he  began  to  unfold  his  plan. 

"  0  you  dear,  good  doctor !  "  Rottraut  called  out,  springing 
up  from  her  seat.  "  0  you  dear !  Papa  is  going  into  the  country 
and  I  am  going  along!  Why,  tliat  is  the  loveliest  idea  you  could 
have  had.  Am  I  not  right?  Everything  nice  always  comes  to 
me — I  have  the  best  of  everything." 

"  But  it  will  be  very  quiet  and  lonely  out  there,"  protested 
the  doctor.    "  Xo  balls,  no  nice  little  lieutenants  " — 

"  Oh,  there  I  shall  be  the  enchanted  princess,  and  of  course  the 
handsomest  and  bravest  prince  in  the  world  will  come  to  wake  me, 
as  old  nurse  used  to  prophesy.  But  just  think  how  astonished  the 
prince  will  be  when  he  sees  me  open  my  eyes — first  a  blue  one  and 


FERDINANDS    VON   BRACKEL.  83 

then  a  brown !  I  am  afraid  he  will  lose  courage  and  run  away. 
And  30U  will  come  out  some  time,  won't  you,  doctor?  All  the 
doors  shall  open  of  themselves  when  you  come.  What  did  papa 
say,  and  will  mamma  have  no  objections?  " 

No,  mamma  had  no  objections — mamma  was  glad  to  have 
one  girl  less  to  take  around.  Elsie  thought  it  best  to  have  her 
youngest  sister  out  of  the  way  a  while  longer,  and  Gertrude  hoped 
that  she  would  study  a  little  more,  for  really  she  knew  hardly  any- 
thing. The  only  one  who  did  not  seem  quite  happy  was  the  doctor 
who  had  suggested  the  plan.  Somehow  he  suddenly  found  the 
Baron's  house  most  strangely  lonesome — even  more  so  than  his 
own  apartments,  where  he  lived  with  his  books  and  his  house- 
keeper. 

II. 

THE  ADVEXT  OF  THE  PRINCE. 

The  seclusion  that  the  Baron  had  promised  himself  did  not 
last  very  long.  They  were  only  on  the  estate  a  few  days  when  he 
and  his  daughter,  out  for  one  of  their  long  walks,  met  two  gen- 
tlemen, one  of  whom  Avas  greeted  most  deferentially  by  the  Baron. 

This  gentleman  was  none  less  than  the  nephew  and  heir  of  the 
reigning  Prince.  He  had  just  returned  from  a  trip  around  the 
world,  and  had  been  expected  in  the  capital  for  some  time.  But 
he  preferred  to  come  first  to  this  little  hunting-lodge,  to  arrange 
his  rare  collection,  gathered  from  all  parts  of  the  globe. 

The  Baron,  himself  a  great  personage  in  the  little  principality, 
was  treated  most  cordially  by  the  Prince ;  when  they  met  the  next 
day  the  Prince  joined  him  and  they  walked  along  in  animated  con- 
versation. The  Prince's  companion  and  adjutant  followed  with 
the  young  girl.  He  was  Count  Walden,  the  long-time  adorer  of 
Elsie,  waiting  for  the  Prince's  accession  and  an  appointment  which 
should  enable  them  to  marry.  In  the  mean  time  the  Baron  did 
not  look  very  kindly  upon  his  courtship,  and  Count  "Walden  was 
quite  delighted  to  be  able  to  thus  meet  his  sweetheart's  father 
under  the  wing  of  the  Prince.    As  for  herself,  Eottraut  kept  think- 


84  JUST  A   SIMPLE  STORY. 

ing  how  happy  Elsie  would  be  if  she  were  in  her  place,  and  yet  how 
little  jealous  she  would  be  of  her  homely  sister — and  the  humor  of 
the  thought  caused  her  to  laugh  merrily  at  everything  possible. 

The  first  day  the  Prince  had  said  to  Count  Waldcn :  "  I  thought 
you  told  me  that  the  Baron's  daughters  are  all  very  beautiful  ?  " 

"  All  but  this  one,"  Walden  hastened  to  aflfirm. 

But  the  next  day  the  girl's  infectious  laughter  filled  his  ears, 
until  at  last  the  Prince  turned  and  looked  back  to  see  what  there 
was  to  laugh  at. 

The  girl  was  not  a  bit  embarrassed. 

"  What  was  it,  child  ?  "  asked  the  Baron. 

"  0  papa,"  she  answered,  "  tlic  merriest  tale,  twice  told,  is 
stale." 

"  You  seem  to  have  a  lively  fancy,"  said  the  Prince,  joining 
Rottraut  as  they  started  again,  while  Count  Walden  was  left  to 
walk  with  the  Baron. 

Rottraut  was  not  displeased  at  the  change.  The  Prince  did 
not  seem  nearly  as  stiff  and  formal  as  she  had  thought  princes  to 
be,  but  laughed  gaily  at  her  witty  sallies.  To  be  sure,  he  had  little 
to  say  himself,  but  the  people  said  of  him  that  he  was  a  scientist, 
and  studied  a  great  deal,  which  was  certainly  not  true  of  many 
princes.  It  was  one  of  his  delights  to  discover  things  out  of  the 
ordinary,  and  so  he  enjoyed  the  girl's  piquancy  and  original 
manner. 

"  As  things  are,"  he  said  to  his  adjutant  on  the  way  home,  "  it 
will  probably  be  rather  pleasant  for  you  to  be  able  to  become  well 
acquainted  with  the  Baron  and  make  a  good  impression  on  him. 
This  walk  need  not  be  our  last.  Try  to  win  his  good  opinion ;  I 
shall  help  you  as  much  as  I  can." 

When  he  returned  to  his  antiquities  he  seemed  to  hear  Rot- 
traut's  merry  laugh,  just  as  the  doctor  did  among  his  books,  and 
he  began  to  wonder  what  she  would  say  about  his  collection. 

Tlie  next  day  they  all  met  again.  And  so  many  other  days. 
If  his  other  daughters  had  been  there,  the  Baron  would  have 
thought  it  noticeable  that  from  that  time  on  the  Prince  usually 
walked  with  Rottraut.    But  she — she  was  safe. 


FERDINANDS    VON    BRACKEL.  85 

Count  Walden  in  the  mean  time  talked  most  seriously  to  the 
liaron  about  politics  and  affairs  of  state.  He  also  mentioned  tlie 
probable  betrothal  of  the  Prince  to  a  certain  Princess.  lie  told 
how  beautiful  she  was,  how  anxious  the  parents  on  both  sides  were 
for  the  union,  what  a  blessing  it  would  be  for  the  country,  and  so 
on,  not  forgetting  to  put  in  that  the  Prince  upon  his  marriage 
would  have  his  own  residence  and  would  be  liberal  in  his  treatment 
of  those  appointed  for  his  service.  The  Baron  listened  calmly  to 
all  these  things,  but,  as  many  other  papas  do  under  similar  circum- 
stances, gave  them  little  thought.  Why  should  he  discuss  the  mat- 
ter with  his  daughter  and  have  her  write  her  sister  Elsie  about  it  ? 
It  would  but  disturb  Elsie's  peace  of  mind  with  useless  hopes. 

So  each  in  his  way  found  the  solitude  delightful,  and  it  lasted 
until  Count  Walden  fell  to  reminding  the  Prince  every  day  that 
he  was  eagerly  awaited  in  the  city,  while  the  Baroness  and  her 
daughters  commiserated  the  Baron  and  Eottraut  in  each  letter  for 
their  banishment.  At  last  the  announcement  was  made  that  the 
Princess  who  was  spoken  of  as  the  prospective  bride  was  coming 
to  the  city,  and  in  the  great  festivities  in  her  honor  papa  and 
Eottraut  must  take  part.  Even  the  doctor  found  the  stay  in  the 
country  had  been  sufficiently  prolonged  for  the  Baron's  health. 

But  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  Eottraut  did  not  seem  to  feel 
a  great  desire  to  see  her  old-time  friend  the  doctor. 

***** 

When  the  Baron  and  his  daughter  came  back  to  the  city  the 
older  sisters  had  much  to  tell,  and  they  did  not  seem  anxious  to 
hear  Eottraut's  experiences.  They  did  know  that  the  Prince 
had  talked  a  great  deal  to  their  father,  and  they  felt  that  the  time 
might  come  when  this  friendship  would  yet  be  very  useful  to  the 
Baron — their  father  might  be  minister  if  the  Prince  became  ruler. 
But  Eottraut  said  nothing,  not  even  to  the  doctor,  for  though  the 
Prince  had  talked  much  to  her,  she  did  not  seem  to  be  able  to  tell 
what  he  really  said.  She  noticed  how  pale  the  doctor  was,  and  for 
the  first  time  Eottraut  was  impressed  with  the  fact  that  his  figure 
was  misshapen.  But  she  did  not  have  much  time  for  reflection, 
for  the  Princess  had  arrived,  and  the  ladies  of  the  capital  were 


86  JV&T  A  SIMPLE  STORY. 

to  be  presented  to  her.  The  Baroness  somehow  felt  that  four 
daughters  were  too  many  to  present  at  once,  and  wanted  to  leave 
the  youngest  at  homo,  but  the  Baron  would  not  listen  to  that.  At 
the  very  last  moment  the  third,  Lisa,  had  a  toothache.  That  would 
have  been  bad  enough,  but  when  the  toothache  resulted  in  a  swollen 
cheek  she  of  course  had  to  be  left  behind.  The  two  older  girls 
were  very  charming  in  their  dainty  spring  gowns.  But  Rottraut  I 
if  she  could  but  have  worn  her  outing  suit,  as  she  did  when  tramp- 
ing around  in  the  country !  These  same  tramps  had  added  freckles 
to  her  other  defects,  and  Rottraut  looked  sadly  at  her  reflection 
in  the  mirror.     But  what  was  to  be  done? 

A  little  while  later  she  was  standing  before  the  beautiful  Prin- 
cess. Beautiful  as  she  was,  Rottraut  noticed  that  she  said  the 
same  thing  over  and  over  again  to  everybody.  Perhaps  she  was 
shy.  But  when  she  saw  Rottraut  she  held  out  her  hand  most 
cordially,  and  told  her  that  the  Prince  had  talked  of  her  a  great 
deal.    "  I  knew  you  at  once,"  she  added. 

"  I  am  afraid  it  is  impossible  for  me  to  travel  incognito,"  Rot- 
traut answered,  as  she  bent  over  the  Princess'  hand  for  the  cus- 
tomary kiss.  For  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  did  not  like  being 
reminded  of  her  red  hair  and  her  variegated  eyes,  which  undoubt- 
edly the  Prince  had  mentioned  in  describing  her. 

"  We  will  see  more  of  each  other  later,"  said  the  Princess. 
"  At  court  most  people  are  so  stiff,  and  the  Prince  told  me  that  you 
have  such  pleasant  ideas." 

Stiff  the  Princess  surely  was,  and  of  ideas,  pleasant  or  other- 
wise, she  did  not  seem  to  have  very  man}^,  Rottraut  soon  discovered. 
So  she  was  glad  when  the  Prince  approached.  But  everything  was 
different  and  formal  here,  compared  to  their  country  meetings, 
and  Rottraut  was  embarrassed.  Perhaps  it  was  that  she  was  too 
glad  to  see  him,  for  she  had  thought  of  him  often  in  these  days, 
and  the  old  nurse's  prediction  about  the  Prince  who  was  sure  to 
come  for  her  some  time  kept  running  through  her  brain. 

When  Rottraut  returned  home  that  day  she  did  what  she  had 
done  very  often  lately — she  looked  in  the  glass.  This  time  she 
found  out  that  her  nose  was  really  not  bad,  and  that  her  figure 


FERDINANDE    VON    BRACKEL.  87 

was  graceful ;  she  remembered  that  the  Prince  had  often  admired 
her  hair,  and  told  her  that  the  great  painters  all  liked  red  hair. 
Why  should  jieople  not  like  hers?  And  she  thought  so  hard  of  all 
these  things  that  when  she  sat  opposite  the  doctor  the  next  time 
he  called    she  really  did  not  know  what  to  say  to  him. 

Not  until  he  was  gone  did  she  remember  that  he  had  said  that 
her  old  nurse  was  ill,  and  had  suggested  how  glad  the  good  old 
woman  would  be  if  Eottraut  would  come  to  see  her  and  tell  her 
some  of  her  jolly  stories.  But  what  should  she  say  to  the  old 
woman  ?  In  these  days  when  the  Prince  was  expected  to  call  she 
had  no  desire  to  go  away  off  into  the  suburbs.  Moreover,  she  was 
convinced  that  her  sister  Lisa  had  visited  her. 

The  Prince  did  call  on  the  following  day,  but  he  was  so 
occupied  with  the  different  ladies  of  the  house  that  he  had  but 
time  to  say  a  few  words  to  Rottraut.  He  told  her  then  how  sorry 
he  was  that  he  could  give  her  so  little  attention,  and  that  was  as 
good  as  a  long  conversation. 

A  few  days  later  the  Princess  came  and  was  most  anxious  to  see 
the  Baroness.  Her  maid  of  honor  was  ill,  and  she  needed  some 
one  in  her  place  ;  would  she  not  let  her  have  Eottraut  for  the  time? 

Naturally  the  Baroness  was  flattered,  but  astonished  at  the 
Princess'  selection.  Elsie  or  Gertie  would  have  been  more  suitable, 
but  Gertie  said  that  the  Princess  did  not  want  to  be  overshadowed 
by  Elsie's  beauty  nor  by  her,  Gertie's,  cleverness. 

"  She  is  careful  on  account  of  the  Prince,"  said  Gertrude. 

"  That  is  it,"  said  Rottraut.  "  I  always  get  the  good  things  be- 
cause no  one  is  afraid  of  me." 

She  said  it  laughingly,  but  for  the  first  time  her  too  ample 
mouth  showed  a  bitter  and  disagreeable  line.  Perhaps  she  could 
show  her  sisters  that  she  could  make  a  different  impression  to 
what  they  imagined. 

In  the  service  of  the  Princess,  Rottraut  found  so  much  to  do, 
and  she  had  to  accustom  herself  to  so  many  new  things,  that  she 
had  little  time  to  think.  In  a  few  days  the  Prince  himself  called, 
and  remained  for  tea,  something  which  he  had  never  done  before. 
He  seemed  highly  pleased  to  meet  Rottraut  and  talked  a  good  deal. 


88  JUST  A   SIMPLE   STORY. 

"  He  Just  stayed  because  you  entertained  him  so  well.  You 
always  have  something  interesting  and  pleasant  to  say.  I  wish 
I  could  talk  as  you  do.  I  never  can  say  a  word  to  him  no  matter 
how  hard  I  try.  Can  you  not  help  me  ?"  asked  the  Princess,  and  her 
great  velvety  eyes  were  fixed  so  confidingly  on  Rottraut  that  the 
girl  had  a  guilty  feeling  of  being  unworthy  of  so  much  of  her 
confidence. 

"  I  believe  I  can  tell  you,"  she  answered,  "  why  you  have  noth- 
ing to  say.  A  woman  can  never  say  much  in  the  presence  of  some 
one  of  whom  she  is  very  fond.  A  man,  on  the  other  hand,  finds  all 
the  more  to  say,"  and  she  smiled  and  buried  her  little  nose  in  the 
tea  rose  which  the  Prince  had  given  her. 

"  If  women  can  not  talk  w^hen  they  are  in  love  then  you  must 
never  have  been  in  love,"  said  the  Princess,  as  she  brushed  back 
the  girl's  red  ringlets  almost  tenderly.  These  same  ringlets  were 
built  up  now  after  the  most  approved  fashion,  and  pale  yellow  tea 
roses  nestled  in  them. 

"  Those  yellow  roses  in  your  hair  were  really  a  happy  sugges- 
tion on  the  part  of  the  Prince.  You  ought  always  to  wear  brown 
velvet  and  pale  yellow  roses,  especially  if  it  should  happen  some 
day  that  you  too  would  be  afflicted  by  a  thick  tongue  and  nothing 
to  say,"  and  the  Princess  kissed  the  girl  tenderly. 

If  it  is.  true  that  a  man's  wit  is  quickened  by  being  in  love, 
as  Rottraut  said,  then  it  was  not  well  with  the  Prince.  For  he 
had  a  desire  to  do  and  say  many  things  these  days,  and  most  of 
them  had  some  relation  to  the  plain  little  maid  of  the  beautiful 
Princess.  He  had  a  new  plan  for  every  day.  Sometimes  it  was 
a  visit  to  the  museum,  sometimes  to  the  theater,  sometimes  a  little 
excursion  into  the  country,  winding  up  with  a  country  dance.  If 
Rottraut  noticed  these  things  she  gave  no  sign,  although  she  usu- 
ally took  part  and  wore  her  pale  yellow  roses.  The  Prince  spent 
a  great  deal  of  time  at  her  side.  The  Princess  may  have  noticed 
this,  but  she  would  not  let  herself  think  of  it,  for  she  did  not 
believe  that  she  could  come  to  grief  through  Rottraut,  in  whom  she 
had  confided  utterly. 

It  was  true,  too,  that  the  Prince  had  made  it  a  point  to  express 


FERDINANDS    VON   BRACKEL.  89 

opinions  upon  many  things  at  these  fetes — and  he  had  particularly 
insisted  that  a  pretty  face  could  never  satisfy  him.  Wit  was  more 
than  beauty;  he  admired  the  elTervescing  quickness  of  mind  that 
brightens  and  fascinates.  This  was  most  pleasant  to  Eottraut,  for 
even  her  best  friend,  the  doctor,  had  never  praised  her  in  that 
way.  And  so  she  began  to  think  again  that  if  the  Princess  had 
taken  her  merely  because  she  was  not  good-looking,  and  there  was 
no  need  to  be  afraid  of  her,  she  knew  differently  by  this  time. 

And  with  all  these  thoughts  it  was  not  unnatural  that  she  be- 
came quieter  and  more  quiet  all  the  time. 

The  Prince  thought  so  too,  and  said  to  her  one  day :  "  The  air 
of  the  court  is  not  good  for  you;  out  in  the  country  you  never 
looked  as  serious  as  you  do  now.  I  hope  that  when  we  go  out  to 
my  lodge  to-morrow  you  will  find  your  delicious  sparkle  again. 
Do  you  not  remember  how  we  walked  through  the  woods  together, 
and  3'ou  had  a  different  story  for  every  flower,  every  tree  ?  .  .  . 
I  hope  I  may  count  on  you  to-morrow,"  he  added,  softly,  "  for  I 
have  something  particular  to  say  to  you — for  once  I  should  like  to 
have  the  privilege  of  saying  something  unusual  myself,"  he  added, 
and  stooped  to  pick  up  the  rose  which  she  had  dropped.  But  not 
to  return  it  to  her^  but  to  fasten  it  into  his  buttonhole  as  if  he 
too  had  acquired  a  fondness  for  pale  yellow  roses. 

When  Eottraut  went  to  bed  that  evening  she  lay  awake,  filled 
with  a  strange  restlessness  that  banished  sleep  for  the  first  time  in 
her  life. 

In  the  morning  she  found  that  the  country  air  might  not  be 
good  for  her,  and  as  she  had  not  seen  her  father  for  so  long  a 
time,  she  would  spend  the  day  with  him.  He  would  be  all  alone, 
for  her  mother  and  sisters  would  Join  the  country  party.  Then, 
too,  she  could  at  last  make  the  long-promised  call  on  her  old  nurse. 
And  really  the  party  would  not  miss  her. 

The  Princess  seemed  distressed  at  her  request,  but  she  gave 
her  permission,  nevertheless,  saying,  however,  that  the  Prince 
would  no  doubt  be  displeased,  as  he  had  planned  the  outing  for 
Eottraut's  benefit. 

As  Eottraut  sat  with  her  father  and  watched  the  coaches 


90  JUST  A   SIMPLE  STORY. 

roll  away  her  feelings  were  most  conflicting.  Would  the  Prince 
miss  her?  And  she  felt  that  he  would,  and  somehow  she  found 
little  to  say  to  her  father,  who  was  not  in  very  good  humor  himself. 

Indeed,  lately  all  sorts  of  unpleasant  thoughts  had  come  into 
his  mind. 

Elsie,  Gertie,  and  Lisa,  his  three  beautiful  daughters,  had  been 
out  in  society  for  many  years,  and  had  been  taken  to  every  func- 
tion, and  what  had  come  of  it?  Elsie  could  only  marry  Count 
Walden  when  he  obtained  his  court  appointment,  and  that  was  still 
far  afield.  Who  knew  whether  he  would  ever  get  it?  Also,  was 
it  not  said  that  the  Prince  cared  but  little  for  the  Princess  who 
had  been  selected  as  his  bride,  and  that  he  loved  some  one  else 
not  his  equal  in  rank.  Even  yesterday  he  had  heard  similar  allu- 
sions at  the  Casino,  and  why  did  Eottraut  stay  at  home  to-day? 
What  could  it  mean? 

But  Eottraut  would  not  listen  to  her  father.  She  brought  out 
the  cards  and  reminded  him  of  the  jolly  times  they  had  had  play- 
ing cards  in  the  country,  and  then  the  Baron  called  her  his  good 
little  daughter,  who  always  knew  what  to  do  to  amuse  him.  Be- 
tween times  he  scolded  about  the  Prince,  who  did  not  seem  to 
know  enough  to  marry  the  Princess,  and  was  thus  making  him- 
self and  others  miserable. 

But  Kottraut  at  this  became  very  silent,  and  found  that  it 
was  time  to  go  to  see  the  old  nurse. 

III. 

THE  REAL  PRINCE. 

"  Ah,"  said  the  sick  woman,  "  thanks  be  to  God  that  you  think 
of  visiting  poor  old  nurse  again !  I  have  waited  so  long  for  you. 
Is  it  the  same  merry  face  we  used  to  know,  doctor?  I  can  not 
see  as  well  now  as  I  did  then." 

At  the  word  "  doctor  "  Rottraut  looked  up  in  astonishment. 
A  man  who  had  been  sitting  by  the  side  of  the  bed  rose.  It  was 
the  doctor. 

"  Professor,  I  ought  to  say  now,"  the  old  nurse  amended. 


FERDINANDE    VON    BRACKEL.  91 

Rottraut  herself  hardly  knew  why  she  felt  so  strange  when  his 
earnest  eyes  were  fixed  questioningly  upon  her.  She  blushed  and 
suddenly  thought  what  beautiful  and  expressive  eyes  the  doctor 
had.  In  her  embarrassment  she  held  out  her  hand  quite  in  the  old 
way,  and  congratulated  him,  telling  him  that  he  had  become  a 
great  man. 

"  But  he  is  just  as  good  as  ever,''  said  the  old  nurse.  "  As  good 
as  gold.  He  never  forgot  me,  and  always  brought  me  help  or 
consolation." 

"  But  the  very  best  thing  of  all — the  sunshine — I  could  not 
bring.  You  never  have  looked  as  happy  for  me  as  you  do  just 
now." 

"  To  make  people  happy  has  been  Rottraut's  gift  since  she  is  on 
earth,"  said  the  nurse. 

"  It  is  one  of  the  most  gracious  gifts.  God  keep  it  for  you 
at  all  times,  and  in  all  places,"  said  the  doctor  to  Rottraut  signifi- 
cantly, and  then  he  raised  her  hand  to  his  lips,  something  he  had 
never  done  before  in  his  life.  It  seemed  as  if  he  were  about  to  say 
something  more,  then  he  turned  and  went  to  the  door. 

"  A  very  good  man,"  said  the  old  nurse,  "  and  he  has  a  sad  lot." 

"  But  M'hy  sad  ?  "  asked  Rottraut,  hastily.  "  He  has  a  great 
name — everybody  likes  him." 

"  To  be  liked  is  not  to  be  loved,  many  a  heart  has  found,"  said 
the  old  woman.  "  Many  a  girl  would  have  him,  but  he  always 
thinks  of  his  deformed  appearance,  and — " 

"  But  he  is  not  at  all  homely,  with  his  beautiful  eyes,"  protested 
Rottraut,  "  and  love  does  not  bother  itself  about  personal  appear- 
ance very  much."' 

"  Ah,  but  his  heart  belongs  only  to  one,"  the  old  woman  went 
on,  with  a  sigh.  "  Perhaps  he  did  ho])e  to  win  her  for  a  time,  but 
now  he  says  it  was  foolish  of  him  to  think  so.  Since  then  he  looks 
so  sad.  Do  you  know  that  he  told  me  the  Prince  is  in  love  with 
you?  Everybody  in  the  city  is  talking  of  it.  They  say  he  does 
not  care  for  the  beautiful  Princess,  but  for  you.  Is  it  true?  A 
Prince,  a  real  Prince?  What  will  your  charming  sisters  say  to 
that  ?    Is  he  real  good,  too  ?  " 


92  JUST  A   SIMPLE   STORY. 

"  How  can  yoii  talk  such  nonsense  of  the  Prince,  dear  nurse  ?  " 
Rottrant  asked,  and  bending  over  her  old  nurse  she  took  her  by 
the  shoulders  and  kissed  her.  "  The  Prince  is  probably  not  half  as 
good  nor  clever  as  our  dear  doctor."  The  girl  was  glad  that  the 
clock  struck  just  then,  and  reminded  her  that  it  was  high  time  to 
leave  to  eo  back  to  the  Princess. 


When  she  returned  the  Princess  was  in  a  more  radiant  mood 
than  Eottraut  had  ever  seen  her.  It  was  a  beautiful  day.  The 
Prince  had  been  a  little  put  out  on  account  of  Rottraut's  absence, 
but  it  had  been  a  lovely  day.  And  the  Princess  showed  great 
anxiety  about  her  toilet,  and  begged  Eottraut  to  advise  her  what 
to  wear. 

The  Prince  had  not  talked  in  vain  to  Rottraut  about  color  and 
color  schemes,  and  she  therefore  chose  most  carefully,  in  spite  of 
the  many  thoughts  that  were  crowding  her  little  head.  The  Prin- 
cess was  delighted,  and  suggested  that  Rottraut  was  not  even  as 
particular  in  choosing  her  own  toilet  as  she  had  been  in  choosing 
that  of  the  Princess. 

And  indeed  the  girl  put  on  her  own  gown  carelessly,  giving 
little  heed  to  its  becomingness ;  in  addition,  she  looked  weary  and 
troubled. 

At  dinner  Rottraut  sat  beside  the  Prince,  and  he  noticed  how 
quiet  and  serious  she  was,  and  found  that  this  did  not  suit  her  at 
all ;  indeed,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  her  lack  of  beauty  seemed 
remarkable  to  him.  He  protested  that  he  had  missed  her  at  the 
picnic,  and  asked  why  she  had  stayed  away.  At  last,  wondering 
of  what  she  might  be  thinking  so  hard  that  she  could  ignore  him, 
he  grew  somewhat  cool,  and  haughtily  asked  her  what  problems 
absorbed  her  so  entirely. 

She  looked  up  at  him  suddenly,  and  a  little  of  her  customary 
vivacity  came  back  to  her  face. 

"  I  am  thinking  most  seriously  of  becoming  engaged,"  she  said. 

The  Prince  gazed  at  her  in  utter  astonishment. 

*^You  are  thinking  of  becoming  engaged!     Most  young  girls 


FERDINANDS    VON    BRACKEL.  93 

do  not  speak  of  things  like  that  until  they  are  actually  engaged," 
he  added,  with  just  a  tinge  of  sarcasm. 

"  But  it  is  the  truth,"  she  went  on,  "  I  am  only  thinking  of  it. 
Other  girls  are  always  thinking  of  this  possibility,  but  it  seemed 
so  far  away  from  me.  Tell  me  truly.  Your  Highness,  did  you  ever 
think  it  possible  that  anybody  should  think  of  me  in  that  way  ?  " 

"  Do  you  really  think  that  there  is  but  one  who  could  think 
of  you  in  that  way?  "  the  Prince  asked,  gently.  He  found  that  in 
spite  of  all  it  might  have  been  hard  for  him  to  think  that  way  of 
her  at  times. 

"  You  see,  Y'our  Highness,  you,  for  instance,  liked  to  talk  to 
me  because  I  happen  to  have  a  pleasing  wit.  But  supposing  I  hap- 
pened to  be  serious  and  tedious  some  time,  just  as  I  am  to-day? 
Oh,  you  are  much  too  kind  to  want  to  answer  me,"  she  went  on, 
with  a  gleam  of  her  old  humor,  "  but  the  other  one  will  love  me 
just  as  much.  The  best  thing  there  is,  I  think,  is  a  heart  in  which 
we  can  always  find  love,  no  matter  what  our  mood,"  she  added, 
and  then  she  looked  over  at  the  Princess,  whose  eyes  were  fixed  on 
them.  The  conversation  had  the  appearance  of  being  most  in- 
timate. 

The  Prince,  too,  involuntarily  followed  her  glance  and  caught 
something  in  the  Princess'  eyes  that  flattered  him.  He  had,  to 
admit  that  she  was  a  most  beautiful  woman,  more  beautiful,  it 
seemed  to  him,  than  he  had  ever  seen  her  before.  And  the  advan- 
tages of  a  union  with  her  seemed  to  come  up  before  his  mental 
vision. 

"You  may  be  right,"  he  said  at  last  to  his  plain  neighbor. 
"  But  you  have  not  yet  told  me  the  name  of  the  fortunate  man." 

"  We  will  wait  a  little,"  she  answered.  "  It  is  not  a  noble  name, 
though  a  distinguished  one.  If  it  were  one  of  my  beautiful  sisters, 
papa  might  hesitate ;  but  for  the  little  girl  with  the  red  hair,  and 
one  blue  and  one  brown  eye,  why,  it  is  an  unexpected  good  fortune. 
As  for  me — well,  it  is  happiness,  too,  to  have  won  one  of  the  best 
and  truest  hearts." 

"  Truly,  truly,"  said  the  Prince,  "  and  therefore  I  wish  him 
who  has  won  you  a  thrice  happy  life." 


94  JUST  A   SIMPLE  STORY. 

She  gave  him  her  hand,  and  this  time  he  held  it  like  a  good 
chum;  with  something  like  tears  shimmering  in  her  eyes  she 
looked  up  at  him  and  said : 

"  I  shall  never  forget  your  kindness  to  the  homely  little  girl, 
and  I  hope  that  you  too  will  soon  be  happy,  and  will  make  others 
happy."  She  suddenly  thought  of  Elsie.  "  And  then  will  you 
not  also  think  of  another  couple  who  have  long  and  patiently 
waited  for  their  happiness  ?  Papa  will  not  give  his  consent  to  my 
sister's  marriage  until  Count  Walden  has  his  appointment." 

"  And  through  the  Count  you  want  to  put  your  papa  in  good 
humor?  "  the  Prince  said,  laughingly.  "  Very  well.  I  can  hardly 
deny  3'ou  anything  to-day,  although  I  am  inclined  to  be  vexed  with 
you  for  wanting  to  leave  us." 

Then  he  led  the  girl  to  the  Princess,  and  after  a  few  moments 
took  his  leave. 

"  You  talked  a  very  long  time  with  the  Prince,"  said  the 
Princess,  just  a  little  suspiciously.  "  It  is  a  delightful  gift  to  be 
able  to  converse  so  entertainingly." 

"  But  this  time  it  was  something  very  particular.  I  was  telling 
the  Prince  of  my  betrothal,  which  is  not  generally  known  as  yet. 
It  is  an  old  love  that  has  lasted  since  I  was  a  small  girl,  and  I  hope 
Your  Highness  will  rejoice  with  me  a  little." 

And  indeed  the  Princess  did  rejoice.  She  never  had  been  so 
happy  and  animated  before.  But  the  people  who  had  noticed  Rot- 
traut's  long  conversation  with  the  Prince  said  that  he  was  in  love 
with  her,  and  that  the  Princess  was  trying  to  conceal  her  chagrin 
beneath  her  assumed  gaiety. 

Professor  Schirmeck  heard  this  rumor,  too,  and  had  his  own 
grief  about  the  matter  as  he  went  down  to  his  clinic  the  next 
morning.  He  passed  the  house  of  the  old  nurse  on  the  way,  and 
for  a  moment  thought  of  going  in  to  tell  her.  Then  he  felt  that 
it  was  not  a  tale  after  all  of  which  he  wanted  to  be  the  bearer.  So 
ho  walked  along  with  bent  head,  until  somebody  suddenly  stood 
in  his  way. 

It  was  Rottraut  herself,  her  eyes  dancing,  her  lips  quivering 


PERDINANDE    VON    BRACKEL.  95 

as  if  with  suppressed  laughter,  just  as  he  had  often  seen  her  when 
she  had  something  funny  to  say. 

"  J  have  to  tell  you  first,"  she  said,  clinging  to  his  arm,  "  you, 
my  oldest  and  very  best  friend." 

The  professor's  head  bent  low,  his  voice  sounded  strained. 

"  I  think  I  can  guess  what  you  have  to  say.  A  brilliant  lot  is 
to  be  yours." 

"  Indeed,  I  could  hardly  have  expected  a  better." 

It  hurt  him  that  her  voice  sounded  so  carelessly  gay. 

He  stood  still,  as  if  to  cut  short  the  conversation.  "  Then  I 
may  congratulate  you  right  now  ?  " 

"  Indeed  you  may.  But  my  engagement  is  not  yet  officially 
announced.  In  the  mean  time  I  hear  that  you,  too,  are  engaged, 
and  that  you  have  chosen  very  wisely." 

"  1?  You  will  have  to  tell  me  who  is  my  bride  to  be.  Frankly, 
I  do  not  like  such  empty  raillery,  my  lady." 

"  Indeed,  I  hope  that  it  is  not  empty  raillery,"  Rottraut  said, 
in  a  low  voice.  "  From  what  I  have  heard  I  am  indeed  going  to 
enter  into  a  more  advantageous  marriage — but  I  do  hope  that  you, 
too,  will  be  happy  " — 

The  doctor  was  very  pale. 

"  This  is  too  much,  my  lady,"  he  said,  harshly.  "  You  have 
not  hit  upon  a  happy  thought " — 

"  Oh,  it  is  the  best,  the  very  best  I  have  had  in  all  my  life — 
or  do  you  mean  that  you  really  do  not  want  your  little  girl  ?  "  and 
she  let  go  of  his  arm  and  looked  into  his  eyes.  "  Have  I  made  a 
mistake  ?  Who  knows  what  might  have  happened  if  I  had  not  felt 
so  sure  and  a  real  Prince  had  appeared,  just  as  nurse  used  to  say 
he  would  ?    A  real  Prince,  professor !  " 

The  \doctor  did  not  seem  to  hear  what  she  M-as  saying,  but 
Eottraut  felt  that  hers  had  been  a  happy  thought  in  spite  of  his 
silence,  and  a  few  minutes  later  the  little  house  of  the  old  nurse 
was  the  scene  of  their  radiant  happiness.  It  was  the  doctor  who 
now  became  eloquent  and  she  who  was  silent,  for  hers  was  happi- 
ness founded  on  true  love  without  pride  or  self-seeking. 


M.    HERBERT. 

Along  with  Ferdinande  von  Brackel  and  Antonie  Jiingst, 
M.  Herbert  is  one  of  the  foremost  names  among  German  Catholic 
women  writers.  The  real  name  of  the  writer  is  Theresa  Keiter, 
and  she  is  the  widow  of  the  critic  and  htterateur,  Heinrich  Keiter, 
who  died  on  August  30,  1898.  M.  Herbert  is  a  modern  writer  in 
Ihe  best  sense  of  the  word.  She  called  a  collection  of  her  stories 
'  Children  of  the  Time,"  and  it  was  a  fit  title.  Her  stories  are 
children  of  the  time  and  filled  with  the  spirit  of  the  day,   but  set 


against  the  background  of  the  faith  in  eternity,  which  is  needed 
to  give  to  things  of  time  their  right  perspective.  There  are  two 
characteristic  qualities  in  her  writing — originality  and  depth  of 
conception.  Her  husband  wrote  of  her  work,  before  he  became 
acquainted  with  her  who  was  to  be  his  wife— "The  quality  of 
Herbert's  work,  which  always  fascinates,  is  the  brilliant  style  and 
the  finished  way  in  which  the  author  manages  to  bring  in  her  ideas 
on  life  and  humanity.  God  and  eternity,  art  and  literature,  and  the 
problems  of  the  day.  so  that  the  effect  is  neither  disturbing  nor 
insistent,  but  seems  but  to  complete  the  harmonious  impression 
of  the  whole." 

Theresa  Kellner,  that  was  the  writer's  maiden  name,  was  born 
on  June  20.  1859,  in  Melsungen,  in  Hessen.  She  began  her  literary 
work  when  very  young  and  had  won  a  name  among  German  writers 
by  the  time  she  was  twenty-seven,  with  her  novels  and  romances 
"Miss  Edda  Brown,"  "Das  Kind  seines  Herzens,"  "Die  Jagd 
nach  dem  Gliick."  "  Kinder  der  Zeit,"  and  others.  After  these  she 
wrote  :  "  Gemischte  Gesellschaft,"  "  Baalsopfer,"  "  Frauennovellen," 
"Aglae."  Besides  this  she  contributed  to  periodicals.  She  also 
published  a  little  book  of  aphorisms  and  a  book  of  poems.  Both 
of  these  essays  into  new  fields  of  literature  were  favorably  received 
by  the  critics,  and  helped  to  confirm  her  high  standing  in  German 
Catholic  literature. 


Xlinsel. 

BY    M.     HERBERT. 
CHAPTEE    I. 

THE  OLD  MUSICIAN. 

Ox  the  sunny  side  of  a  hill,  near  one  of  the  quiet  little  towns 
of  which  there  are  so  many  in  Germany,  there  was  a  weed-grown 
garden.  The  crumbling  wall  and  the  neglected  flower-beds  framed 
a  dilapidated  old  house.  The  wind  had  torn  many  a  tile  from 
the  roof,  and  the  rain  long  since  washed  the  paint  from  its  walls. 
Even  the  grape-vine,  that  may  itself  have  been  planted  to  cover 
the  signs  of  decay,  was  not  tied  up,  but  hung  unpruncd,  its  creepers 
fluttering  loosely,  with  but  few  bunches  of  fruit  among  the  chok- 
ing luxuriance  of  leaf. 

Beside  the  house,  however,  there  stood  a  great  linden-tree,  in- 
different in  its  majesty  to  the  decay  and  weediness  about  it.  Its 
green  branches  struck  the  dusty  windows  and  reached  inside  when 
they  were  opened,  the  only  fresh  and  beautiful  thing  in  the  place. 

The  surroundings  were  an  indication  of  the  interior.  The 
hallway  was  covered  with  straw  and  dust,  the  tapestries  hung  from 
the  walls  in  fragments;  here  and  there  were  dusty  and  broken 
pieces  of  household  furniture,  while  worn-out  garments  hung  on 
rusty  hooks. 

And  who  were  they  who  lived  amidst  such  surroundings? 

In  a  room  whose  furnishings  were  in  keeping  with  the  whole 
place  an  old  man  sat  at  an  ancient  piano  and  accompanied  his 
beautiful  little  daughter  as  she  sang. 

The  man  was  a  veritable  human  ruin ;  he  seemed  to  be  a  faded 
gray  from  the  crown  of  his  head  to  his  toes.  One  could  not  tell 
whether  he  had  thus  faded  with  the  passing  time,  or  whether  the 

99 


iOO  TINSEL. 

thick  dust  which  covered  all  else  in  this  house  and  followed  every 
motion  one  made  by  a  quick  rising  cloud  had  settled  on  him  too. 

The  long  and  ample  dressing-gown  which  hung  about  his 
spare  form,  the  thin  curls  that  fell  to  the  updrawn  shoulders,  the 
bushy  eyebrows,  everything  was  gray  and  colorless,  except  for 
the  deep,  dark  eyes — the  one  touch  of  vivid  life  in  the  man.  The 
years  back  of  him,  however,  had  been  eventful  and  vari-colored, 
rich  in  hopes,  and  full  of  disappointments;  full,  too,  of  brilliant 
scenes,  in  which  he  had  been  a  spectator  oftener  than  an  actor. 

His  soul  had  been  filled  with  a  flaming  desire  for  the  highest 
and  the  most  evanescent  of  all  the  gifts  that  life  offers.  He  had 
dreamed  the  dream  of  art  and  of  its  success — the  dream  which 
betrays  thousands  by  its  allurements,  and  yet  never  fulfils  its 
promises — for  somewhere,  somehow,  its  devotees  experience  the 
sting  of  dissatisfaction  and  heartache. 

Even  now  that  his  own  life  was  gray,  and  forgotten  of  the 
crowd,  he  did  not  give  up  his  dream.  It  rose  again,  more  en- 
chanting than  ever  in  the  last  thing  left  to  him — his  yellow-haired, 
golden-voiced  little  daughter.  It  was  a  marvel  that  she  should 
rise  out  of  the  dirt  and  the  dust,  the  poverty  and  deprivation  into 
Avhich  the  old  musician  sank  deeper  and  deeper  every  day,  delicate 
and  graceful  as  a  blossom.  But  she  herself  was  a  marvel.  Thus 
the  old  man  told  himself.  Thus  he  told  the  child — too  often. 
She  was  a  wonder,  as  Malibran  had  been  once — Malibran,  whose 
glory  of  song  had  been  the  enthusiasm  of  his  own  youth. 

There  was  a  magic  in  his  daughter's  voice,  and  he  hoped  that 
her  future  would  be  filled  with  the  roses  whose  thorns  only  he 
had  felt.  When  he  had  seen  her  first  triumph  he  would  be  willing 
to  die ;  he  would  then  have  reached  the  loveliest  thing  of  which  he 
had  ever  dreamed.  His  life  and  work  would  not  have  been  in  vain. 

The  girl  herself,  the  object  of  his  proud  desires,  wove  the  web 
of  her  own  fancy  into  dreams  of  a  future,  brilliant  and  happy. 
She  had  never  known  the  gentle  and  pious  influence  of  a  mother's 
love.  She  did  not  even  know  what  her  mother's  name  had  been. 
Tier  father  had  nurtured  no  tender  memories  of  her  in  the  child's 
mind;  for  his  marriage  with  the  beautiful,  careless  danseuse  had 


M.   HERBERT.  101 

been  one  more  of  the  shattered  hopes  of  his  life.  She  had  died 
after  clouding  his  unhappy  ^vay  with  a  few  more  shadows.  And 
he  had  not  mourned  her.  Whatever  belonged  to  the  past  was 
valueless  and  forgotten.  The  poor  musician  had  a  narrow  heart, 
a  circumscribed  existence.  His  whole  being  fed  hungrily  on  that 
one  desire,  that  one  hope.  He  would  long  since  have  died  of 
)nental  and  physical  decay  if  the  thought  of  his  child's  future 
liiid  not  kept  him  at  a  living  tension.  The  girl  really  had  a  happy 
cliildhood — free,  full  of  sunshine  and  delicious  idleness^  with  no 
thought  of  care  nor  duty,  beloved  and  petted,  as  if  there  were  no 
dark  days  to  be  expected  in  life.  For  although  her  surroundings 
seemed  bare  and  ugly  in  the  eyes  of  the  ordinary  beholder,  the  lit- 
tle one  found  mines  of  pleasure  in  them.  To  her  it  would  not  have 
been  half  so  nice  if,  instead  of  the  rank  grass,  the  wild-flowers,  and 
raspberry  bushes,  regular  beds  and  paths  had  marked  the  garden. 
There  was  nothing  jollier  than  to  climb  around  in  the  old  linden- 
tree,  pull  its  branches  as  she  liked,  and  drink  the  dew  from  its 
leaves. 

And  although  her  father  sometimes  wanted  her  to  sing  at  most 
inconvenient  moments,  he  did  not  compel  her  to  go  to  the  hated 
school  as  other  children  had  to.  When  she  had  practised  un- 
usually well,  he  would  unlock  the  great  oak  chest  in  his  bedroom 
in  which  were  hidden  fabulous  splendors.  Red,  and  white  and 
blue,  and  gold-embroidered  gauze  and  satin  dresses,  bright  flowers, 
strings  of  pearls,  fans,  velvet  shoes,  gold-spangled  veils — such  a 
variety  of  glittering  finery  that  the  little  one  would  clap  her  hands 
with  pleasure  and  then  begin  to  trick  herself  out  in  the  gaudy 
tinsel.  And  she  knew,  naturally,  how  to  adapt  its  splendor  to 
her  dainty  face  and  figure. 

Her  father  would  lean  silently  against  the  wall  in  the  mean- 
time, watching  the  child  with  luminous  eyes.  His  trembling 
hands  would  fold  themselves  suppliantly  and  he  would  whisper: 
"  Dear  God,  hear  my  prayer,  and  grant  me  my  desire  this  time." 
'Not  did  he  realize  what  a  foolish  prayer  he  made  to  the  great  and 
wise  God,  who  pities  us  in  our  petty  love  for  the  tinsel  of  earth. 

^  ijc  ^  ijc  4t 


102  TINSEL. 

The  old  man's  self-sacrifice  for  the  sake  of  the  child  was  moat 
touching.  While  he  himself  suffered  for  necessities,  he  brought 
her  all  sorts  of  delicate  tid-bits.  His  possessions  went  to  ruin 
and  his  own  coat  was  so  shabby  that  his  pupils  guyed  him;  but 
his  daughter  was  dressed  in  every  foible  of  fashion.  It  was  in- 
deed a  singular  sight  to  see  the  elegantly  clad,  symmetrical  girl, 
with  her  fine-featured  face,  in  the  poor  room  with  its  shabby 
furniture,  standing  beside  the  old  man,  who  coaxed  the  last  rem- 
nants of  melody  out  of  the  quavering  piano  in  accompaniment  to 
her  clear  young  voice. 

Time  passed  in  the  shabby  little  house  outside  of  the  quiet 
little  town.  The  old  musician  grew  older  and  grayer  every  day 
and  the  linden  branches  spread  wider  and  closer.  When  the  wind 
swayed  them  apart  on  a  summer  evening,  one  might  catch  a 
glimpse  of  a  girlish  face  framed  in  golden  curls.  Sometimes 
the  passers-by  paused  at  the  garden  wall  and  listened  to  a  voice 
that  seemed  to  come  from  the  heart  of  the  tree.  It  was  a  voice 
that  might  move  one  to  anything  it  willed.  Sometimes  tears, 
sometimes  the  vague  longing  for  things  nnattained.  The  old 
man's  dream  seemed  to  be  coming  true.  The  voice  had  a  certain 
fame  even  then  beyond  the  quiet  little  town. 

Once,  indeed,  a  distinguished-looking  man  came  up  from  the 
capital  and  offered  the  old  man  an  engagement  for  his  daughter. 
The  latter  received  the  visitor  in  his  poor  room,  and  offered  him 
a  rickety  chair.  His  beautiful  daughter  stood  expectantly  beside 
the  piano.  But  he  told  her  to  leave  the  room.  When  the  gentle- 
man, who  had  followed  the  girl's  movements  admiringly,  made 
his  offer,  the  gray  old  man  answered  with  measured  courtesy : 

"  I  thank  you,  sir,  but  my  daughter  will  make  her  debut  in 
Paris.  Paris  is  the  only  place  for  a  great  gift.  We  will  go  there 
in  a  few  months." 

Again  days  and  weeks  passed.  The  old  man  began  to  spend 
the  slender  sum  he  had  saved  for  the  long-hoped-for  journey  to 
Paris.  He  sent  to  the  city  for  a  tailor,  and  had  a  new  suit  made 
for  himself.  This  was  really  a  necessity,  even  if  he  had  had  no 
intention  of  going  on  a  journey.    He  bought  beautiful  and  costly 


M.   HERBERT.  103 

gowns  for  his  adored  daughter.  From  the  days  of  his  own 
comparative  successes  he  still  had  memories  of  what  was  suitable 
for  a  lady,  and  he  spared  nothing.  More  assiduously  than  ever 
he  practised  the  newest  songs  over  and  over,  and  until  late  at 
night  the  young  voice  rang  out  with  untiring  strength. 

Then  it  happened  that  a  tall,  aristocratic-looking  young  man 
passed  the  weed-grown  garden  one  evening.  The  musician's 
daughter  was  practising  as  usual,  and  the  magic  of  her  voice  held 
him  fast.  He  sat  down  on  the  crumbling  garden  wall  and  listened 
until  she  ceased  to  sing.  The  next  evening  he  came  again,  and 
many  evenings  after,  until  at  last  the  desire  to  see  the  singer 
became  overmastering. 

But  how  gain  entrance  to  her  rigid  seclusion? 

It  is  easy  to  find  an  excuse  when  one  is  looking  for  it.  He 
would  ask  her  father  to  teach  his  little  niece,  whose  parents  he  hap- 
pened to  be  visiting.  He  would  go  personally  instead  of  writing, 
and  thus  he  would  probably  have  a  chance  to  see  the  marvelous 
singer,  and  to  thank  her  for  the  great  delight  that  her  song  had 
given  him.  Further  his  thoughts  did  not  go,  for  he  had  a  clean 
heart,  and  if  his  forehead  was  lined  it  was  because  he  was  a  stu- 
dent and  a  thinker.  His  mind  was  open  and  receptive  for  every- 
thing that  was  good,  much  more  so  than  his  calm,  severe  face 
might  have  led  one  to  think. 

One  bright  afternoon  he  knocked  at  the  worm-eaten  door. 
As  no  one  seemed  to  hear  he  pushed  it  open  and  entered.  Al- 
though the  disorder  and  the  dust  that  rose  at  every  step  gave 
him  a  queer  feeling,  he  went  on  toward  the  second  story,  where 
he  suspected  the  living-rooms  to  be.  He  knocked  once  more  at 
another  door,  and  receiving  no  answer,  entered. 

The  room  was  empty,  but  the  window  was  open  and  the 
linden  branches  came  in  through  it.  Out  on  a  gently  swaying 
branch  sat  the  musician's  daughter,  her  white  hands  lying  idly 
in  her  lap,  her  head  leaning  against  the  trunk  of  the  tree.  Her 
reveries  seemed  pleasant,  for  she  smiled  softly  to  herself  as  she 
sat  there,  flooded  by  the  golden  light  breaking  through  the  green 
of  the  trees. 


104  TINSEL. 

The  young  man  stood  still  a  moment — a  thought  of  Undine 
flashed  into  his  mind.  Then  he  took  several  steps  hesitatingly  and 
bowed  low. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said.  "  I  should  like  to  see  your 
father/'  and  then  he  came  closer  to  the  window. 

At  the  sound  of  the  strange  voice  the  girl  turned  her  startled 
eyes  toward  him.  Then  as  she  felt  the  admiration  in  his  gaze 
she  blushed  faintly  and  answered  his  greeting  with  evident  em- 
barrassment. But  she  quickly  regained  her  composure.  Her 
father  was  not  at  home,  she  told  him,  and  asked  him  to  wait,  as 
he  might  come  any  moment. 

And  then,  with  a  little  teasing  touch,  she  pointed  to  the  win- 
dow-sill and  invited  him  to  sit  down,  if  he  was  not  afraid  of 
falling.  He  sat  down  and  they  continued  to  talk  as  if  they  had 
known  each  other  for  a  long  time.  Thus  the  astonished  old 
musician  found  them  about  an  hour  later. 

So  soft  and  full  of  the  joy  of  youth  and  life,  the  young  voice 
had  never  yet  rung  out  as  it  did  on  the  evening  that  followed. 
Never  before  had  it  made  such  an  impression  upon  a  human  heart 
as  it  did  upon  the  young  man  who  sat  on  the  garden  wall  and 
listened  and  listened.  When  it  was  all  over  he  rose  to  his  full 
height  and  said,  "  She  must  be  my  wife." 

Again  the  time  passed.  The  summer  had  gone  and  winter 
followed,  and  now  spring  was  here  again,  but  the  young  singer 
had  made  no  hit  in  Paris,  her  name  had  not  filled  the  papers  and 
the  journals.  His  beautiful  daughter  had  not  realized  the  old 
musician's  dream.  Instead  she  had  stolen  away  on  the  night  set 
for  the  departure  for  Paris,  after  he  had  tried  to  force  her  to 
give  up  the  idea  of  marrying  her  lover.  This  last  disappoint- 
ment had  also  been  his  last  grief. 

The  old  house  was  empty,  the  old  musician  lay  in  a  forgotten 
grave,  and  all  his  work  had  come  to  naught. 


M.   HERBERT.  105 

CHAPTEK  IL 

THE   SINGER. 

It  was  in  the  middle  of  October,  the  time  whieh  usually 
brings  the  mild  and  melancholy  days  the  German  poets  love  so 
much.  It  was  the  time  of  the  yellow  leaves  and  the  red  berries, 
the  faint,  blue  skies  and  the  mellow  light,  the  time  of  the  home- 
flying  birds  and  of  the  old  woman's  summer. 

But  this  time  it  did  not  bring  the  gentle  days.  Before  the 
last  of  summer's  roses  had  attained  their  full  bloom  a  heavy 
frost  had  come  and  laid  its  killing  touch  on  the  earth.  And  the 
wind  blew  cold  and  raw,  as  if  it  had  its  delight  in  the  dance  of 
death  in  which  it  whirled  the  blackened  leaves  through  the  streets. 

Two  women  stood  on  the  balcony  of  a  large  house  in  St. 
Andrew's  place.  One  was  slender  and  delicate,  almost  too  slender 
and  delicate,  yet  one  forgot  it  when  one  looked  upon  her  face. 
It  no  longer  had  the  beauty  of  early  youth,  but  instead  there 
was  intensity,  spirit,  and  fascination.  The  other  woman  was 
stout,  short,  and  business-like.  They  seemed  to  be  mistress  and 
maid. 

The  wind  swept  howling  around  the  corner  and  ruffled  the 
long,  blond  hair  of  the  younger  woman.  But  she  did  not  seem 
to  notice.  She  leaned  against  the  railing  and  stared  down  into 
the  little  garden  with  its  whirling  chestnut  leaves.  Then  the 
older  woman  spoke  to  her: 

"  Come  into  the  house,  my  lady,"  she  said.  "  You  will  take 
cold  in  this  sharp  air." 

The  answer  was  a  short  laugh. 

"Take  cold,  Babette?  What  are  you  thinking  of?  You  are 
beginning  to  treat  me  as  if  I  were  going  into  a  decline." 

"  But  don't  you  intend  to  sing  to-day,  my  lady  ?  And  you 
know  how  much  depends  on  the  success  of  your  first  appearance 
here." 

This  warning  was  effective. 

"  You  are  right,  Babette.     The  wind  is  chilly,  and  my  voice 


106  TINSEL. 

must  be  cherished,  for  my  wliole  existence  does  depend  on  it. 
I  will  go  in." 

Inside  there  was  a  crackling  fire  in  the  grate,  and  the  heavy 
curtains  shut  out  the  sound  of  the  chilling  fury  without.  Never- 
theless the  young  woman  walked  up  and  down  shiveringly  sev- 
eral times,  as  if  just  realizing  the  cold.  At  last  she  paused 
before  the  grand  piano,  and  pushing  aside  a  stack  of  music  im- 
patiently, she  began  to  play  without  notes.  The  sounds  she  called 
forth  were  wild  and  feverish  at  first,  but  gradually  she  grew 
more  quiet,  and  ended  with  a  tender  lullaby,  while  unconsciously 
almost  her  lips  formed  the  words  and  her  voice  followed  the 
music.     Then  suddenly  she  broke  down  and  began  to  sob. 

"  My  children,  oh,  my  children !  "  she  cried.  "  I  am  dying 
with  longing  for  them." 

Babette,  who  was  sitting  sewing  in  a  corner  of  the  room, 
wiped  her  eyes,  but  made  no  attempt  to  console  her  young  mis- 
tress. 

"  God  alone  can  help  her,"'  she  whispered  to  herself. 

The  young  woman  rose  from  the  piano  and  went  toward  her. 

"  Babette,"  she  said.  "  I  must  have  my  children,  or  I  can  not 
sing  any  more.  When  I  raise  my  voice  for  a  full  sound  some- 
thing chokes  me  and  hurts  me  so  that  I  feel  as  if  I  must  cry 
instead  of  singing.  I  wonder  how  they  are,  the  dear  little  things  ? 
I  wonder  if  they  take  good  care  of  them  ?  " 

She  had  sat  down  on  the  footstool  before  the  elder  woman 
and  was  looking  at  her  anxiously.  The  latter  stroked  the  beautiful 
blond  hair  gently. 

"  The  Baron  would  give  his  life  rather  than  have  any  ill 
happen  them,"  she  said,  consolingly. 

The  young  woman  shuddered. 

"  They  will  forget  me.  They  will  not  know  me  when  I  see 
them  again,  if  I  ever  do.  He  will  take  care  of  that."  Then  she 
buried  her  face  in  her  hands  again,  and  sat  there  motionless 
until  her  servant  reminded  her  of  the  necessity  of  dressing  for 
the  evening. 


M.    HERBERT.  107 

The  theater  was  crowded  to  the  last  seat  on  tliis  evening.  An 
expectant  whisper  went  from  mouth  to  mouth. 

"  They  say  she  is  more  beautiful  than  ever,"  said  a  young 
officer  in  the  first  row  to  his  neighl)or.  "  Wore  you  liere  at  her 
first  appearance?  What  verve  in  her  acting,  what  a  ring  to  her 
voice!     She  is  superb." 

The  man  addressed  shook  his  head  cynically. 

"Ah,  bah,  a  pretty  woman,  that's  all.  AYould  have  done 
better  to  have  stayed  with  her  husband  and  the  babies.  Spent 
the  whole  summer  at  baths,  I  hear,  trying  to  cure  a  distressing 
hoarseness.     Bad  sign  that.    Artists'  bays  are  not  always  green." 

Then  he  put  up  his  glass  and  began  to  watch  the  boxes.  Up 
in  the  balcony  the  talk  was  also  of  the  new  singer. 

"  I  Avisli  she  would  be  hissed,"  said  an  elderly  seamstress  to 
her  friend.  "  Yes,  indeed,  I  do !  It  would  serve  her  right  for 
leaving  such  a  good  husband  and  two  sweet  babies  for  the  sake 
of  her  precious  vanity." 

"  I  have  heard,"  said  the  other,  "  that  her  voice  is  nothing 
to  what  it  was,  but  she  must  sing  to  pay  her  debts." 

The  talk  was  drowned  by  the  overture  of  the  orchestra,  and 
soon  after  the  curtain  rose.  The  opera  was  Romeo  and  Juliet, 
and  when  the  curtain  fell  on  Juliet  a  wave  of  unending  applause 
swept  over  the  house.  Behind  the  scenes  friends  and  acquaint- 
ances were  heaping  congratulations  on  her.  But  she  stood  pale 
and  silent,  without  a  word.  Before  her  eyes  she  saw  constantly 
the  broken  form  of  the  old  man,  her  father,  who  would  have 
given  half  his  life  to  have  seen  his  child's  success.  And  now  she 
had  become  that  for  which  he  had  trained  her,  but  his  blessing 
was  not  on  her.  She  had  thrown  it  away  for  the  sake  of  a  hap- 
piness that  had  deserted  her  too. 

Tremblingly  she  changed  her  costume  for  the  next  act.  When 
she  stood  on  the  stage  again  she  felt  no  strength  in  herself  to 
sing.  Nevertheless  she  commenced.  But  what  was  this  strange 
pain  in  her  throat?  There  was  a  sudden,  hoarse  discord,  her 
voice  broke,  and  she  sank  fainting  on  the  stage. 

All  night  long  the  storm  raged  and  the  wind  howled  with 


108  TINSEL. 

a  singularly  despairing  sound.  So  at  least  it  seemed  to  the  young 
woman  who  lay  on  her  hcd,  pale  and  still,  with  wide  open  eyes,  as 
dawn  crept  through  the  curtains.  At  last  she  sprang  up  and 
rang  her  bell.  It  seemed  a  long  time  before  any  one  came,  and 
she  walked  up  and  down  restlessly  in  her  long  white  nightgown, 
unheeding  the  chilliness  of  tlie  room.  At  last  Babette  came, 
frightened  at  the  sight  of  her  mistress,  shivering  and  feverish. 

"  Get  the  doctor  at  once — ask  him  not  to  wait,"  she  said,  "  or 
better  still,  tell  me  right  away  yourself  what  ihe  doctor  said  last 
night  about  my  condition." 

The  5'oung  woman's  face  was  so  despairing  that  the  maid's 
eyes  filled  with  tears  as  she  told  her  that  the  doctor  had  said 
nothing  definite,  but  had  looked  very  anxious. 

When  Babette  had  gone  the  singer  drew  a  morning  robe  about 
her  shoulders  and  went  into  the  reception-room,  where  her  mag- 
nificent piano  stood.  She  opened  it  and  began  to  sing.  Oh,  hap- 
piness !  Here  was  her  voice,  full  and  clear,  with  the  same  affecting 
charm  that  had  so  often  entranced  her  audiences.  Higher  and 
higher  rose  her  song  in  the  utter  joy  of  her  relief.  Then,  sud- 
denly, again  that  pain,  that  hoarse  discord.  Blood  streamed 
from  her  mouth;  once  more  she  fell  unconscious.  There  the 
doctor  and  the  maid  found  her. 

The  musician's  daughter  had  sung  her  last  song.  Whither  did 
the  wind  carry  all  the  exquisite  tones? 

It  was  evening  again.  The  rain  splashed  down  in  torrents, 
and  the  last  leaves  of  the  chestnut  fell  noiselessly  on  the  little 
paved  place  before  a  plainly  built  villa. 

From  the  high  windows  of  the  ground  floor  light  streamed 
out  on  the  pavement  and  gave  the  only  sign  of  life  in  the  house. 
Inside  the  lonely  room  a  man  sat  writing.  His  pen  flew  over  the 
sheets,  though  once  in  a  while  he  paused  and  listened,  bending 
his  head  toward  the  open  door  of  the  adjoining  room.  Once  he 
rose,  and  taking  the  lamp  walked  on  tiptoe  into  the  room.  Here 
he  bent  down  over  a  little  bed  in  which  two  children  were 
sleeping. 


M.   HERBERT.  109 

They  were  two  lovely,  golden-haired  little  beings.  The  father 
covered  them  up  carefully  and  then  tiptoed  back  to  his  work.  His 
face  had  a  hard,  severe  expression  that  made  him  seem  older 
than  he  was.  The  firmly  closed  mouth,  the  Grecian  nose,  the 
thick  dark  hair,  gray-streaked,  gave  him  a  distinguished  look. 
It  might  even  have  been  fascinating  if  his  coldness  had  not  re- 
pelled approach. 

There  was  a  time  when  it  seemed  as  though  things  might  be 
different  with  him.  That  was  the  time  when  he  brought  his 
young  wife  home  and  introduced  her  to  his  acquaintances — he 
hardly  had  intimate  friends.  No  one  had  heard  of  his  engage- 
ment or  his  marriage;  no  one  had  ever  seen  the  young  woman 
before,  or  heard  her  simple  bourgeois  name.  But  that  in  itself 
made  her  interesting.  She  was  received  as  a  delicious  surprise, 
and  her  clever  conversation,  her  beauty,  and  her  magical  voice 
were  sought  for  every  fashionable  gathering.  The  Baron, 
her  husband,  escorted  her  everywhere,  and  his  eyes  followed  her 
every  motion.  But  when  she  had  had  two  dear  little  children, 
and  still  remained  a  society  beauty,  busy  tongues  began  to  whisper 
about  her.  She  was  called  a  brilliant  coquette,  and  so  on — and 
there  were  good  friends  ready  to  tell  her  husband  what  people 
were  saying.  The  Baron  listened  to  them  coldly,  as  if  their  talk 
did  not  touch  him,  but  after  that  the  Baroness  did  not  appear 
in  society  so  frequently.  He  left  the  big  house  in  the  city  and 
came  out  to  this  lonely  little  villa  with  his  family. 

His  young  wife  did  not  understand  the  change.  He  himself 
treated  her  with  coldness.  She,  spoiled,  admired  as  she  had  always 
been,  pined  and  wept  in  her  exile.  Why  is  it  that  the  wind  does 
not  carry  away  evil  words  as  easily  as  it  does  good  ones?  And 
finally  their  world  found  out  that  the  Baroness  had  left  her  hus- 
band and  was  singing  in  a  distant  city.  To  people  the  man 
seemed  colder  and  more  distant  than  ever,  but  his  political 
speeches  were  also  more  brilliant.  He  was  becoming  a  great 
statesman. 


110  TINSEL. 

CHAPTER  III. 

THE   END. 

The  Baron  in  his  lonely  room  laid  down  his  pen  at  last,  and 
took  up  the  paper.  He  read  the  political  news  and  articles  care- 
fully. Involuntarily  almost  he  turned  then  to  the  column  on 
art  and  drama.  After  a  moment  he  put  the  paper  down,  and 
his  hand  trembled  a  little.  He  rose  and  walked  up  and  down 
the  room  nervously.  He  saw  himself  once  more  standing  out- 
side the  old  musician's  house  and  listening  to  a  wonderful  voice. 
She  was  the  old  man's  idol,  who  should  perfect  his  dream  and 
bring  him  honor  and  wealth  and  triumph — all  that  he  himself 
had  missed.  But  the  young  Baron  saw  her,  and  her  sunny 
beauty  waked  all  the  depths  of  his  determined  nature.  He  would 
marry  her,  and  when  the  old  musician  refused  to  give  her  to 
him,  he  took  her.  He  himself  was  the  first  to  teach  her  to 
forget  her  duties.  Would  not  God  hold  him  responsible  if  her 
soul  was  lost  ? 

"  You  must  find  her,"  he  told  himself.  "  You  must  save  her, 
if  you  can." 

But  then  the  memory  of  the  bitter  disappointment  that  this 
woman  had  been  to  him  came  over  him  again,  and  the  evil 
spirit  was  uppermost. 

At  this  moment  the  bell  rang  in  the  vestibule,  then  a  light 
step  hesitatingly  approached  the  children's  bedroom.  The  Baron 
paid  no  attention.  If  he  noticed  it  at  all,  he  may  have  thought 
that  it  was  the  nurse  looking  after  her  charges. 

Perhaps  an  hour  passed  thus,  when  a  sound  coming  from 
the  adjoining  room  roused  him.  Turning,  he  saw  that  the  por- 
tieres were  thrown  back,  and  the  slender  figure  of  a  woman  was 
standing  there.  Her  face  was  very  pale  and  her  blue  eyes  were 
fixed  entreatingly  upon  her  husband.  In  her  arms  she  held  the 
smaller  of  the  two  children,  which,  feeling  itself  in  its  mother's 
arms,  snuggled  close  against  her,  half  asleep. 


M.   HERBERT.  Ill 

The  Baron's  face  darkened  and  he  did  not  seem  to  see  that 
she  was  trembling  so  that  she  could  hardly  hold  the  child. 

"  Do  not  think  that  I  have  come  to  ask  you  to  take  me  back," 
she  said.  "  I  have  only  come  to  ask  for  what  is  dearest  to  me 
on  earth." 

"  What  do  you  want  with  the  child  ?  "  he  interrupted,  roughly. 

"  Do  not  be  so  hard  and  bitter,"  she  said,  gently.  "  I  know 
that  when  I  left  your  roof  I  surrendered  my  right  to  the  children ; 
but,  Eichard,  you  do  not  know  what  I  have  suffered.  I  am  dying 
for  the  sight  of  them.  Have  mercy  and  let  me  have  one — only 
one  of  them,  that  I  may  do  my  duty  once  in  my  life  at  least." 

"  You  have  lost  your  voice  and  your  triumphs.  Now  that 
your  vanity  can  no  longer  satisfy  itself,  you  are  thinking  of  your 
duties.  Xo,"  he  said,  angrily.  "  I  will  help  you.  I  will  give 
you  as  much  money  as  yo»  want.  Go  to  Italy,  travel,  rest.  You 
may  find  your  voice  again.  But  I  will  protect  my  children.  The 
poison  of  your  frivolity  shall  not  be  implanted  in  them." 

He  spoke  calmly,  but  his  expression  was  so  unyielding  that 
she  made  no  resistance  when  he  took  the  child  out  of  her  arms 
and  went  into  the  bedroom  with  it. 

Slowly  she  turned  to  the  door  and  went  heavily  through  the 
hall,  into  the  cold  air  outside.  Her  faithful  servant  was  waiting 
for  her.  "  I  have  no  hope  left,"  she  said,  as  leaning  on  her  maid's 
arm  they  went  slowly  toward  the  hotel. 

The  dark  look  left  the  face  of  the  Baron  as  soon  as  he  re- 
turned to  his  workroom  and  found  that  his  wife  was  gone.  If 
she  had  remained  he  might  have  softened.  But  now  she  was 
gone,  and  he  knew  that  she  would  not  return. 

Did  he  feel  remorse  now  that  he  had  sent  away  the  mother  of 
his  children  so  unmercifully?  There  was  no  sign  of  emotion  in 
his  face.  His  heart  suffered,  perhaps,  for  she  was  his  wife  and 
he  loved  her.  The  next  morning  he  made  inquiries  for  his  wife's 
address,  but  without  result.  He  advertised,  but  there  was  no 
reply.  He  deposited  some  money  in  a  certain  bank  for  her,  but  it 
was  not  drawn. 

Again  time  passed,  dragging  or  fleeting,  as  one  takes  it.   The 


112  TINSEL. 

Baron  had  traveled  far  and  wide,  bvit  he  did  not  speak  of  the  pur- 
pose of  his  journeys.  He  had  searched  for  his  lost  ^yiie,  but 
found  no  trace  of  her.  Now,  in  the  springtime,  he  returned  to 
his  children  and  found  them  blooming  and  healthy  under  the 
care  of  their  nurse.  But  he  took  no  delight  in  them,  for  sorrow 
was  eating  his  heart.  His  hair  was  gray  and  his  forehead  deeply 
lined  with  care. 

One  day  he  was  walking  indifferently  along  the  streets  of  his 
native  city  when  he  met  his  wife's  old  servant.  The  blood  rushed 
to  his  heart,  but  his  face  gave  no  sign.  He  approached  her 
calmly,  and  though  a  thousand  questions  trembled  on  his  lips, 
he  did  not  ask  a  single  one.  He  knew  his  wife  must  be  living, 
or  else  the  old  woman  would  be  in  mourning. 

"  Babette,"  he  said  to  her,  "  if  your  mistress  wishes  it,  my 
children  may  come  to  her  every  day  for  a  few  hours.  Tell  her 
that." 

"  It  is  too  late,  sir,"  was  the  sad  answer.  "  She  has  but  a  few 
days  left  to  live." 


In  a  poor  room,  away  up  under  the  roof,  the  once  famous 
singer  lay  on  a  little  bed. 

Her  nightgown,  with  its  fine  lace  trimmings,  her  long,  blond 
hair,  which  was  spread  out  on  the  pillow,  were  in  singular  con- 
trast to  the  shabby  room  and  the  deathly  pallor  of  her  face. 

Her  white,  almost  transparent-looking  hand  rested  on  the 
arm  of  her  faithful  servant. 

"  Babette,"  she  said,  faintly,  her  eyes  glittering  with  fever, 
"  I  have  lost  everything  and  have  nothing  left  in  the  world. 
My  voice  is  gone,  and  my  beauty,  my  youth  and  my  wit;  my 
children  are  out  of  my  reach.  I  have  thrown  away  love  and  disre- 
garded duty.  What  have  I  left  to  live  for  ?  I  do  not  want  to 
get  better — indeed,  I  do  not." 

"  Our  merciful  Father  in  heaven  still  lives,"  said  the  old 
woman  solemnly.  "  Go  back  to  your  husband.  He  is  ready  to 
take  you." 


M.   HERBERT.  113 

The  sick  woman  raised  herself  painfully  and  threw  her  arms 
about  the  nurse's  neck. 

"  Teach  me  to  pray,  Babette.  I  feel  that  there  is  still  hope 
in  the  mercy  of  God.    But  I  can  not  find  it  alone." 

Quick  steps  were  heard  on  the  stairway,  and  the  sick  woman 
straightened  up,  listening  eagerly.  The  door  opened  in  a  moment 
and  a  man  came  in.  His  iron  reserve  was  gone  and  he  sank 
down,  overcome  by  emotion,  at  the  bedside  of  the  dying  singer. 

"  My  poor,  unhappy  wife,"  he  sobbed  aloud. 

She,  however,  had  fallen  back  into  the  pillows,  unable  to 
think  or  to  speak.  All  that  she  could  do  was  to  smile  happily. 
He  took  her  hand  and  held  it  in  his  a  long  time. 

At  last  she  began  to  whisper  softly  to  him,  her  great,  strangely 
brilliant  eyes  fixed  on  him.  "  Teach  my  children  to  honor  my 
memory.  Teach  them  to  pray,  and  above  all  things  teach  them 
that  they  have  duties,  for  without  duties  fulfilled  life  is  a  night- 
mare— ugly  and  woful." 

At  the  last  words  a  painful  smile  passed  over  her  face,  a  smile 
which  the  Baron  never  forgot. 

"  Forgive  me  everything,"  the  dying  woman  entreated. 

"  You  must  live,"  he  cried  out,  despairingly.  "  You  must 
come  back  to  me  and  to  your  children !  " 

"Back?"  she  breathed  faintly.  "Back  to  God."  And  then 
all  was  over. 

"  Back  to  God — and  to  duty,"  said  the  Baron,  his  voice  choked 
with  tears.    "  That  is  meant  for  me,  too." 


EMMY    GIEHRL. 


This  writer,  whose  name  is  a  household  word  among  German 
children,  who  know  her  as  "  Tante  Emmy"  (Aunt  Emm.y),  was 
born  on  November  1,  1837,  in  Regensburg.  Her  father,  Dr. 
Joseph  Aschenbrenner,  was  a  prominent  man,  who  was  made 
Minister  of  Finance  in  1849,  and  later,  as  a  reward  for  his  services 
to  the  state,  was  given  a  patent  of  nobility.  There  were  seven 
children  in  the  family,  but  three  of  them  died  very  young.  The 
remaining  four  had  the  advantage  of  an  unusually  careful  training 


and  education.  Emmy  was  a  delicate  child  and  so  was  kept  away 
from  most  of  the  pleasures  and  games  of  childhood,  which  resulted 
in  a  somewhat  melancholy  tendency  to  lugubrious  poetry  and  ideas 
of  early  death.  In  1858  she  was  married  to  Assessor  Rudolf 
Giehrl.  Her  father  died  in  the  same  year,  aged  sixty  years.  In 
1864  the  blow  of  her  own  life  befell  her.  She  became  ill  with  a 
spinal  and  nervous  disease,  which  has  since  kept  her  to  her  bed. 
In  1874  her  husband  died,  leaving  but  the  one  injunction  to  his 
wife,  to  look  carefully  after  ihe  training  of  the  children. 

At  this  time,  broken  as  she  might  have  seemed  by  bereavements 
and  illness,  she  began  her  literary  work.  Not  into  imposing 
volumes,  but  into  little  tales,  most  of  them  designed  especially  for 
the  children,  flowed  her  energies.  She  appeals  to  children  of  all 
ages,  the  little  ones  who  have  scarcely  mastered  the  letters,  and 
the  old  ones  who  are  playing  with  their  grandchildren.  There  is  a 
touch  in  her  stories  that  wins  the  heart  at  every  age.  A  collection 
of  her  complete  works  has  been  published  in  eight  volumes.  One 
of  her  children's  annuals  has  been  issued  for  seventeen  years, 
another  one  for  fifteen. 

There  are  fairy  tales,  stories,  novels,  picture  bc^ks,  and  plays. 
Her  "  Kreuzesblijthen,"  a  book  of  devotions,  has  appeared  in  ten 
editions  and  been  translated  into  several  languages  as  well  as 
another  work  "Die  Verlobten,"  a  book  for  girls,  especially  brides. 
Among  her  long  list  of  stories  the  following  are  especially  worthy  of 
mention:  "Die  Sternsanger, "  "  Meister  Fridolin  "  (translated  into 
English);  "In  Herben  Zeiten,"  "Das  junge  Familienhaupt, " 
"Rudolf,"  "Maria  Hilf,"  "Wahrheit  und  Erfindung,"  "Die 
Dorfhexe."  Wherever  her  books  have  appeared,  they  have  won 
their  way  by  their  pre-eminent  quality  of  lovableness. 


CbUC>ren  ot  tvbav^, 

BY   EMMY   GIEHRL. 


On  the  last  day  of  the  month  of  April  several  Sisters  were 
busily  making  garlands  and  arranging  flowers  for  the  May  de- 
votions, which  were  to  begin  next  day  in  the  chapel  of  the  city 
orphan  asylum.  That  sort  of  work  is  dear  to  the  devout  heart, 
for  through  it  the  childlike  fancy,  as  well  as  the  generosity  that 
shrinks  from  no  sacrifice  for  the  honor  of  God  and  His  saints, 
seems  best  expressed.  It  has  been  claimed  that  the  first  impulse 
to  the  May  devotions  was  given  by  a  child,  and  there  is,  indeed, 
a  great  truth  underlying  that  claim.  Our  relations  to  Mary  when 
rightly  considered  must  be  those  of  a  child  to  its  mother.  As 
the  child  delights  in  decorating  the  picture  of  its  absent  mother, 
so  we  too  place  the  first  fruits  of  spring,  flowers  and  blossoms,  at 
Mary's  feet.  When  we  go  to  the  May  devotions  we  are  like  good 
children  who  greet  their  tenderly  beloved  mother  and  delight  her 
with  their  offerings  and  prayers. 

"Do  please  hand  me  that  branch.  Sister  Benigna,"  said  a 
girl's  soft  voice.  "  All  the  bushes  in  the  convent  garden  have 
to  help  us  in  the  praise  of  our  dear  Mother,  Just  see  the  little 
buds.    They  look  like  tiny  roses  between  the  pale  green  leaves." 

"But  then  you  have  remarkably  good  taste,  too,  my  child," 
the  Sister  answered,  and  looked  smilingly  down  at  the  young  girl, 
who,  with  eagerly  flushed  face  and  deft  hands  was  preparing  the 
decorations  for  a  statue  of  Our  Lady  of  Victory,  while  a  young 
friend  was  helping  her. 

Neither  of  the  girls  was  more  than  eighteen  years  old,  and 
both  were  in  fashionable  attire.     They  therefore  did  not  belong 

117 


118  CHILDREN  OF  MARY. 

to  the  Daughters  of  St.  Vincent  de  Paul,  who  had  charge  of  the 
city  orphan  asylum  and  its  pupils.  Nevertheless  they  seemed  very 
much  at  home  here,  where  in  truth  they  went  in  and  out  nearly 
every  day. 

"  Oh,  you  give  us  the  greatest  pleasure,  dear  Sister,  when 
3'ou  just  let  us  help  you.     Isn't  it  so,  Elizabeth?" 

The  other  girl  nodded  affirmatively.  "  Indeed  it  is,  Marianne, 
for  the  chapel  of  the  asylum  is  noted  for  its  tasteful  decorations 
and  its  beautiful  May  devotions." 

"  The  praise  for  that  belongs  to  Miss  von  Marten,"  Sister 
Benigna  answered,  modestly.  "  She  is  always  doing  something 
for  our  humble  chapel  and  helping  us  out  when  our  little  means 
fall  short.  And  the  dear  Mother  in  heaven  will  pour  out  graces 
over  her  in  reward." 

"  Yes,  yes,  Marianne,"  said  her  friend,  teasingly.  "  You  will 
get  your  wish  and  I  shall  soon  see  you  here  in  a  little  cap  as 
postulant." 

"  May  God  grant  it,"  the  young  girl  sighed,  and  a  shadow 
flitted  over  her  bright  face.     "  And  you,  Elizabeth  ?  " 

"  I  ?  Oh,  as  your  devoted  friend,  I'll  have  to  follow  you 
wherever  you  go." 

"  Indeed,"  said  Sister  Benigna,  gently,  "  then  our  Mistress 
of  Novices  is  to  be  congratulated  on  getting  two  such  fine  novices 
at  once." 

The  girls  smiled.  "  How  peaceful  it  is  in  these  quiet  rooms," 
said  Marianne.  "  I  really  believe  that  the  true  love  of  God  could 
make  a  paradise  out  of  a  prison.  I  feel  that  in  such  a  place  self- 
ish desires  must  perish  and  the  storms  of  life  end." 

"  That  is  true,  my  child,"  Sister  Benigna  answered,  "  but  only 
in  unison  with  God  and  His  holy  will." 

"  You  know,  of  course.  Sister  Benigna,  that  I  am  a  child  of 
Mary  ?  "  Marianne  asked.  "  I  was  dedicated  to  Mary  on  the  first 
day  of  my  life  and  I  never  wore  anything  but  blue  and  white 
until  I  was  twelve  years  old.  After  my  first  communion  I  began 
to  wear  other  colors.  At  that  time  I  had  a  heavy  care  in  my 
heart." 


EMMY   aiEHRL.  119 

"  A  h^avy  care  at  twelve  years,  child,  and  in  your  circum- 
stances ?  "  Sister  Benigna  repeated. 

"  And  yet  it  was  so.  Do  you  believe  in  a  soul-union — that 
is  spiritual  communication,  with  those  whom  we  love  especially  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  understand  you  altogether." 

"  Well  then,  I  shall  tell  you.  My  mother  had  a  friend  when 
she  was  young  who  was  like  her  other  self  to  her.  They  were 
educated  in  the  same  academy,  became  Children  of  Mary  on  the 
same  day,  and  promised  each  other  to  be  true  to  the  grace  of 
being  Children  of  Mary  all  their  lives.  They  exchanged  white 
roses,  which  they  pressed  and  placed  in  their  prayer-books,  that 
the  sight  of  them  might  always  remind  them  of  Mary  the  most 
pure.  Later  they  were  separated.  My  mother  married  and  did 
not  hear  anything  for  years  of  that  other  Marianne  after  whom 
I  was  named,  and  who  had  been  so  dear  to  her.  But  a  wonderful 
Providence  caused  me  to  meet  her  when  I  was  still  a  little  girl. 
One  day  when  I  was  out  walking  I  met  a  strange,  pale  lady,  who 
spoke  to  me.  When  I  told  my  dear  mother  about  her  afterward 
and  described  her,  some  intuition  seemed  to  tell  her  that  this  was 
surely  her  lost  friend.  She  had  seemed  to  be  very  unhappy,  and  my 
mother  begged  me  to  pray  a  great  deal  for  her,  so  that  she  might 
not  be  unhappy  for  all  eternity. 

"  I  prayed  often  and  long  for  poor  Marianne,  on  whose  account 
my  mother  grieved  so  much,  and  whom,  in  spite  of  my  youth, 
I  could  not  forget  myself.  I  somehow  understood  that  it  was 
the  question  of  the  eternal  happiness  or  eternal  misery  of  a  soul, 
and  I  constantly  prayed  to  Mary  to  help  her  child.  But  just 
before  my  first  communion  I  had  a  strange  dream.  The  Blessed 
Virgin  bowed  down  from  the  altar  of  the  church  which  I  visited 
every  day  and  said  to  me: 

" '  Marianne,  do  you  really  love  me  very  much  ? ' 

"  ^  Oh,  yes,  yes,'  I  answered. 

"  '  Very  well,  then.     Work  for  souls.' 

" '  What  shall  I  do  ? '  I  asked^  for  I  did  not  understand  what 
she  really  meant. 

" '  He  who  truly  loves  souls  will  give  his  life  for  their  salva- 


120  CHILDREN   OF  MARY. 

tion,  as  my  divine  Son  gave  His  for  the  salvation  of  mankind. 
Are  you  prepared  for  such  a  sacrifice  ? ' 

"  '  Yes/  I  said,  and  woke.  But  when  I  thought  about  my  beau- 
tiful dream  it  seemed  to  me  that  it  could  only  mean  that  I  was 
to  give  up  my  life  for  the  unhappy  Marianne,  and  I  felt  I  was 
ready  to  do  so.  I  still  remember  how  pale  my  dear  mother's  face 
grew  when  I  told  her  that  I  had  prayed  to  God  to  let  me  die  to 
save  her  lost  friend.  I  did  not  tell  her  of  the  dream,  partly  be- 
cause I  was  too  timid,  and  partly  because  I  saw  that  it  would 
only  make  her  more  sad.  As  it  was  she  had  drawn  me  to  her, 
and  I  heard  her  whisper :  '  Oh,  God,  not  that,  not  that.' 

"  Strange  to  say  the  lost  Marianne  came  to  us  shortly  before 
her  death,  was  reconciled  to  God,  and  died  quietly  and  peacefully 
in  our  house.  Her  last  word  was  a  blessing  for  me  and  a  prayer 
of  thanks  for  the  grace  that  had  made  her  a  Child  of  Mary.  Of 
my  promised  sacrifice  for  her  sake  she  never  heard  anything, 
and  God  did  not  accept  it  either,  although  I  was  in  earnest  about 
it.  Can  it  be  that  it  has  been  saved  up  for  me  for  some  later 
time  ?  " 

"  If  the  hour  should  come  for  it,  my  child,"  said  Sister 
Benigna,  "  the  divine  love  will  give  you  the  strength  and  grace 
you  may  need  to  make  it." 

While  they  were  still  talking  the  vesper  bell  rang  in  the 
community  part  of  the  asylum  and  the  two  girls  said  good-by 
and  started  homeward. 

II. 

The  residence  of  Doctor  von  Marten,  who  had  a  prominent 
position  at  the  university  of  the  capital,  was  in  the  suburbs  of 
the  city,  and  Elizabeth  and  Marianne  turned  in  that  direction. 

Suddenly  Elizabeth  stood  still  and  said: 

"  Marianne,  what's  wrong  with  you  ?  I  have  noticed  for  some 
time  that  you  are  not  as  gay  as  usual,  and  to-day,  when  you  were 
talking  to  Sister  Benigna,  I  saw  that  you  had  tears  in  your  eyes 
and  heard  you  sighing.    Tell  me,  dear,  what's  worrying  you  ?  " 

Marianne  pressed  her  friend's  hand.    "  Help  me  pray,  dear/* 


EMMY   OIEHRL.  121 

she  wliispcrcd,  "pray  to  Mary,  the  refuge  of  sinners.  You  are 
a  Child  of  Mary^  too,  and  have  as  much  right  to  her  heart  ^nd 
help  as  I  have.    Perhaps  she  will  reward  our  trust." 

"  0  surely  I  will,  Marianne.  But  who  is  it  that  you  are  anx- 
ious about  ?   Your  father  or  your  mother  ?  " 

"  Oh,  about  them,  too.  But  first  my  brother.  Leo,  you  know, 
has  been  a  good  boy  right  along.  But  lately  he  has  gotten  into 
bad  company  and  he  will  succumb  to  its  influence  I  am  afraid 
if  the  Blessed  Mother  does  not  work  a  miracle  of  grace.  Father 
and  mother  have  talked  to  him,  and  he  has  promised  several  times 
to  do  better.  But  the  temptation  is  stronger  than  his  will  and  so 
he  goes  on  and  on,  and  my  poor  mother's  heart  is  breaking." 

"  Poor  Marianne,  how  sorry  I  am  for  you !  Though  I  guessed 
myself  that  everything  was  not  well  with  Leo.  He  keeps  out  of 
my  way  now,  though  he  used  to  be  like  a  brother  to  me.  The 
poor  fellow !  But  just  have  courage.  We  must  pray  for  him  very 
earnestly  and  the  Blessed  Mother  will  not  desert  us." 

Talking  thus  they  had  reached  Marianne's  home.  Elizabeth 
went  on  and  turned  into  the  next  side  street.  When  Marianne  came 
into  her  mother's  room  she  found  her  crying.  The  young  girl's 
mind  was  so  full  of  concern  about  her  brother  that  she  guessed 
instinctively  what  was  the  cause  of  her  mother's  grief. 

She  took  off  her  hat  and  putting  both  her  arms  around  her 
mother  said :  "  Sweetest  mother,  you  are  crying.  Can't  your  little 
girl  know  what  is  troubling  you  ?  " 

Sadly  the  mother  answered :  "  Do  not  ask,  my  dear  child. 
You  are  too  young  for  such  things." 

"  Too  young  ?  "  said  Marianne,  gently.  "  I  am  eighteen  years 
old,  and  yet  too  young  to  share  your  griefs  ?  Oh,  you  do  not  mean 
that.  Do  you  remember  how,  when  I  was  still  a  little  girl,  you 
took  me  into  your  confidence  about  your  wayward  friend  ?  Now, 
when  it  is  a  question  of  one  who  is  so  dear  to  both  of  us,  do  not 
say  that  I  am  too  young." 

"  You  guess  then  ?  "  and  the  mother's  delicate  and  still  beau- 
tiful face  flushed  painfully.  The  mother-heart  is  always  the 
Bame,  suffering  for  and  with  the  erring  child  to  the  last  moment. 


132  CHILDREN  OF  MARY. 

Instead  of  further  answer  Marianne  kissed  her  mother  several 
times  most  tenderly  and  sat  down  beside  her  and  talked  to  her, 
until  at  last  the  poor  mother  could  no  longer  deny  herself  the 
consolation  of  her  daughter's  confidence  and  sympathy.  Then 
they  sat  for  a  long  time,  considering  what  they  might  do  and 
encouraging  each  other  to  trust  in  God. 

"  You  dedicated  me  to  Mary,"  said  Marianne.  "  You  shared 
your  rights  as  my  mother  with  the  Blessed  Virgin  and  she  can 
not  desert  us  in  our  tribulation.  To-morrow  is  the  first  day  of 
May,  and  we  will  give  ourselves  into  her  care  and  service." 

III. 

Day  after  day  the  beautiful  May  devotions  were  held  in  the 
convent  chapel,  and  every  day  Marianne's  mother  and  the  two 
girls  attended.  Elizabeth  was  an  orphan  and  lived  in  her  guar- 
dian's house,  but  was  altogether  devoted  to  Marianne's  mother, 
who  in  turn  treated  her  almost  as  if  she  were  her  own  child.  The 
wash  had  often  come  up  in  the  older  woman's  heart  that  some 
day  Elizabeth  might  be  more  than  a  friend  and  come  into  the 
family  as  Leo's  wife.  But  this  sweet  dream  had  been  destroyed 
too  by  Leo's  dissipation,  and  no  one  dared  whisper  of  its  realiza- 
tion any  more.  Of  late,  indeed,  Elizabeth  had  frequently  aston- 
ished her  friends  by  saying  that  she  shared  Marianne's  inclination 
to  a  religious  life,  and  would  some  time  enter  the  same  Order 
which  Marianne  might  decide  to  enter. 

A  few  days  after  the  conversation  between  Marianne  and  her 
mother  the  former  went  to  her  brother  and  began  to  talk  to  him 
gently  about  his  wild  ways,  but  he  repulsed  her  impatiently. 

"  If  you  can't  do  anything  but  whine  and  reproach  me,"  Leo 
said,  "you  needn't  talk  to  me  at  all.  I  have  all  the  reproaches 
and  blues  I  want  of  my  own  and  don't  need  your  tearful  face  to 
remind  me  of  my  miseries." 

"  0  Leo,  how  you  talk  to  me,  your  sister,  your  little  play- 
mate." 

"Let  me  be,  Marianne.  I  can  stand  anything  better  than 
these  naggings  and  reproaches,  that  don't  do  any  good,  anyway." 


EMMY   OIEHRL.  123 

"  But,  my  dear  brother,  just  think  what  misery  you  are  caus- 
ing our  parents,  you  who  used  to  be  so  good  and  industrious  and 
their  pride  and  joy.  And,  now — won't  you  listen  to  nic — let  me 
warn  you.  Leave  your  present  friends,  come  and  stay  with  us 
again,  and  I  promise  you  that  no  reproach  shall  reach  you,  no 
word  ever  allude  to  anything  you  have  done  in  the  past.  Only 
come,  Leo." 

To  win  him  back  was  the  dearest  thought  of  her  days,  the 
care  of  her  nights.  And  the  tears  filled  her  eyes  now  as  she 
talked  to  him  and  held  out  her  hands  to  him.  She  could  not 
forget  the  beautiful  time  when  they  had  all  lived  together  in 
sweet  and  peaceful  companionship.  She  took  Leo's  hand  and  held 
it  fast.  She  looked  up  at  him  so  imploringly  as  she  waited  for  his 
answer  that  she  seemed  almost  irresistible.  Her  brother  was  vis- 
ibly moved.  He  had  a  good  heart,  but  he  had  grown  careless 
through  his  dissipated  habits,  though  betweentimes  he  had  many 
a  night  of  conscience-stricken  remorse,  and  now  he  was  fair 
enough  to  see  that  she  was  right  and  he  altogether  wrong.  For 
an  instant  his  good  angel  seemed  to  conquer.  His  eyes  grew  moist 
and  he  answered  gently: 

"  Forgive  mc,  Marianne,  if  I  was  cross.  I  know  that  I  am  a 
miserable,  unworthy  outcast,  who  does  not  deserve  that  such  a 
good  creature  as  you  are  should  cry  over  him.  But  what  can  I 
do?  I  don't  know  where  to  turn.  I  have  given  my  word  of 
honor  and  I  have  to  have  some  money  within  twelve  hours,  and 
you  know  that  father  will  not  give  me  any  more." 

"  Oh,  but  he  has  done  so  much  for  you  already,  brother  dear. 
You  understand — " 

"  No,"  he  said,  becoming  bitter  again.  "  I  do  not  understand 
how  he  can  let  his  son  go  down  to  disgrace  rather  than  help  him 
with  a  few  dollars." 

"  How  can  you  talk  like  that,  Leo  ?  Have  you  forgotten  the 
many  sacrifices  we  have  all  made  for  you  ?  " 

"  Not  at  all.  But  in  the  end  the  money  will  be  ours  anyway, 
and  so  it's  all  the  same  whether  we  get  it  a  few  years  sooner  or 
later." 


134  CHILDREN  OF  MARY. 

"  Leo !  Surely  you  do  not  mean  to  steal  from  father  ?  For 
heaven's  sake  tell  me  is  there  no  way  out  of  the  trouble  ?  " 

"  Can  you  help  me  ?  " 

"  How  much  do  you  need  ?  " 

"  About  $75." 

"  That  is  a  good  deal  for  me  to  raise,  brother." 

"  Then  you  can't  give  it  to  me  ?  " 

Marianne  hesitated,  then  she  said  with  a  trembling  voioe : 

"  I  will  try  this  once  more,  for  our  dear  parents'  sake.  But  it 
is  the  last  time,  Leo." 

"  Oh,  you  dear,  good  Marianne,"  he  called  out  in  delight, 
"■  Help  me  just  this  once  more  and  you  shall  be  satisfied  with  me 
in  the  future."  His  eyes  shone.  The  relief  from  his  difficulties 
brightened  him  up.  But  Marianne  herself  went  away  heavy- 
hearted.  She  felt  and  knew  only  too  well  that  their  meeting, 
as  so  many  times  before,  had  resulted  but  in  Leo  asking  her  for 
more  money.  He  had  made  the  same  promises  as  enthusiastically 
each  time,  and,  oh,  how  little  he  had  kept  them ! 

With  shaking  hands  she  opened  her  little  cabinet,  which  con- 
tained the  humble  savings  that  were  her  own,  and  were  all  which 
she  had  the  right  to  dispose  of.  She  had  made  such  sweet  plans 
as  to  their  use.  If  the  grace  of  God  smoothed  the  way  to  the 
convent  for  her,  she  meant  to  give  this  money  as  dowry  for  ft 
poor  serving-maid,  who  likewise  wished  to  devote  herself  to  the 
Lord.  But  she  gave  up  even  this  cherished  plan  for  her  brother's 
sake,  for  in  her  innocence  and  simplicity  she  still  hoped  that  he 
might  do  better  if  given  one  more  chance.  And  how  happy  her 
father  and  mother  would  be  in  that  event !  She  took  the  money 
resolutely  and  went  back  to  Leo's  room  with  it. 

"  Here  is  what  you  asked  for.    But  now  keep  your  word." 

"  You  will  see,"  he  answered,  confidently. 

He  kissed  her  delightedly,  called  her  his  sweet  sister,  his  good 
angel,  and  so  on,  all  the  pretty  titles  with  which  he  used  to  please 
her  when  they  were  younger,  and  nothing  had  yet  come  between 
them.  And  Marianne  believed  in  him  and  hoped  for  the  best 
once  more.    For  nobody  is  easier  to  deceive  than  a  person  who  is 


EMMY   GIEHRL.  125 

himself  good  and  honest  and  noble.  He  Judges  the  world  by 
himself,  and  trusts  others,  because  he  expects  only  what  is  worthy 
of  trust  from  others.  On  the  other  hand  it  is  infinitely  hard,  too, 
to  stop  in  a  downward  course  and  to  turn  back  to  better  things, 
when  habit  and  associations  tempt  at  every  step. 

For  several  days  Leo  acted  as  though  he  really  meant  to  carry 
out  his  good  resolutions  and  become  a  better  man.  He  stayed 
at  home  evenings  and  talked  pleasantly  with  his  father  and 
mother.  The  latter  was  most  happy  and  pleased  by  the  change. 
In  union  with  her  daughter  she  prayed  with  special  fervor  now  to 
the  Blessed  Virgin  out  of  gratitude  for  her  son's  reformed  life. 
But  unhappily  these  pleasant  conditions  did  not  last  very  long. 
Our  dear  Lord  often  tests  our  trust  in  Him  in  the  most  unusual 
ways  and  seems  to  deny  even  the  most  urgent  prayers,  although 
they  may  be  in  the  best  cause  and  the  suppliant  truly  pious.  Ho 
wishes  not  only  to  prove  our  patience  and  our  faith  in  His  power, 
but  also  to  show  us  His  mercy  and  His  forbearance  by  waiting 
to  see  whether  the  erring  heart  will  not  at  last  turn  back  to  Him 
of  itself. 

Thus  the  month  of  May  had  almost  passed,  when  one  morn- 
ing the  maid  came  running  out  of  the  young  man's  room  and 
gave  the  frightened  parents  a  letter  which  she  had  found  there. 
It  said  briefly : 

"  My  dear  parents,  forgive  your  unhappy  son  the  pain  I  must 
cause  you.  I  have  fought  a  duel  and  fatally  wounded  my  op- 
ponent. So  I  must  leave  and  can  not  return  if  I  do  not  want 
to  get  into  the  hands  of  the  police.  Therefore  it  may  be  many 
years  before  I  can  see  you  again.  Do  not  deny  me  then  the  only 
thing  that  remains  to  me  in  my  terrible  plight — your  blessing 
and  your  sympathy." 

There  was  notliing  in  the  letter  to  show  where  Leo  had  gone, 
and  so  it  is  easy  to  understand  how  terrible  were  the  anxiety  and 
distress  of  his  poor  parents. 

At  last  the  final  evening  of  the  May  devotions  had  arrived. 
The  overflowing  chapel  at  the  asylum  was  slowly  emptying,  and 
the  sexton  was  putting  out  the  candles  on  the  altars  and  rattling 


126  CHILDREN   OF  MARY. 

his  keys — but  still  three  women  knelt,  lost  in  prayer,  and  oblivious 
to  all  that  was  going  on  about  them.  Pale  as  death,  the  tear- 
dimmed  eyes  raised  to  the  statue  of  the  Queen  of  heaven,  the 
oldest  of  the  women  poured  out  her  woe  to  her  who  understands 
better  than  we  human  beings  the  pangs  of  a  mother's  heart.  The 
two  young  girls  beside  her  buried  their  faces  in  their  hands  and 
sobbed  audibly.  The  griefs  of  youth  are  still  demonstrative 
and  uncurbed  as  youth  itself,  and  M^e  must  begin  to  grow  old 
before  we  can  bury  one  sweet  hope  after  another  without  crying 
out  aloud. 

Just  then  one  of  the  girls  felt  a  gentle  touch  on  her  arm. 

"  Marianne,  my  poor,  dear  child !  "  It  was  Sister  Benigna, 
who  had  come  to  lock  the  street  door  of  the  chapel  and  had  recog- 
nized Madame  von  Marten  and  her  daughter  and  their  friend 
Elizabeth  in  the  belated  group.  Her  questioning  glance  rested  on 
Marianne's  tear-stained  face. 

"  0  Sister  Benigna !  My  brother,  our  poor  Leo !  "  Marianne 
sobbed. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  him  ?   Is  he  dead  ?  " 

"  No,  thank  God,"  Elizabeth  interrupted,  but  Marianne  con- 
tinued : 

"  Oh,  it  is  almost  worse  than  death.  He  fought  a  duel  and  has 
left  the  country  !  " 

"  Then  we  must  commend  him  to  the  Blessed  Mother,  and 
pray  that  he  will  come  back." 

"  Yes,  dear  Sister,  we  must  all  do  that,"  the  mother,  who 
had  risen  from  her  knees,  said  now :  "  I  have  just  done  so  myself, 
and  feel  that  our  Mother  in  heaven  will  not  forsake  the  poor,  mis- 
guided boy.  Come,  children,  let  us  have  faith  and  courage. 
Everything  will  yet  be  well.    Let  us  go  home  now  to  father." 

"  Your  intention  shall  be  ours  too,"  Sister  Benigna  said,  con- 
solingly, as  she  followed  the  party  to  the  door. 

"  Mother,"  whispered  Marianne,  when  they  were  outside,  tak- 
ing her  mother's  hand  tenderly  in  hers,  "  where  do  you  get  your 
trust  and  your  strength  ?  " 

"It  comes  from  faith  in  God's  love  and  mercy,  and  the  con- 


EMMY   GIEHRL.  127 

viction  that  Mary  is  powerful  to  help  us,"  was  the  beautiful  an- 
swer. 

"  I  am  a  Child  of  Mary,  like  you,"  Marianne  answered.  "  1 
must  learn  from  you  to  have  a  firm  faith." 

IV. 

Two  years  had  passed.  How  many  occurrences,  how  much 
joy  and  happiness,  but  how  much  sorrow  and  sadness,  too,  that 
span  of  time  may  encompass. 

Never  a  word  had  been  heard  from  the  self-exiled  Leo.  If 
Leo  was  still  in  Europe  at  all,  he  had  probably  taken  another 
name  so  as  to  escape  recognition.  His  opponent  in  the  duel  did 
not  die,  but  had,  on  the  contrary,  recovered  very  rapidly.  In  a 
way  unintelligible  to  strangers,  yet  perfectly  plain  to  Leo  if  he 
should  see  it,  Leo's  father  had  published  this  fact  in  all  the  most 
prominent  papers  of  the  continent.  After  that  his  family  felt 
that  he  would  surely  return,  but  he  did  not.  Unfortunately  the 
duel  was  really  only  a  welcome  pretext  for  flight,  as  it  soon  be- 
came plain  that  the  young  man  had  many  debtors,  and  this  was 
one  way  of  getting  away  from  them.  The  honorable  name  of  his 
parents  and  grandparents  should  not  be  stained  by  perfidious 
action,  and  so  the  old  doctor  sacrificed  a  substantial  part  of  his 
fortune  in  order  to  satisfy  the  claims  of  those  who  might  other- 
wise have  suffered  by  his  son's  carelessness.  Whoever  had  known 
the  amiable  and  universally  respected  physician  in  earlier  days 
and  saw  him  now  must  have  been  painfully  impressed  by  the 
change  that  the  boy's  conduct  had  wrought.  The  erect  shoulders 
had  drooped,  the  springing  gait  had  become  slow,  and  the  curly 
dark  hair  was  streaked  with  gray.  His  kindly  face  had  grown 
weary  and  worn-looking.  His  wife,  too,  was  as  broken  as  he, 
though  in  her  mother  love  still  fought  against  the  evidences  of 
the  facts  and  fed  itself  day  by  day  with  the  hope  that  in  some 
way  Leo  would  come  back. 

***** 

Marianne  suffered  not  least  under  the  burden  of  grief  that  had 
fallen  on  the  family.     To  be  sure  she  preserved  a  brave  front, 


128  CHILDREN  OF  MARY. 

ISTever  a  complaint  crossed  her  lips,  and  whenever  Leo  was  men- 
tioned she  had  kindly  words  and  excuses  for  him.  She  exerted 
herself  daily  to  divert  her  father  and  cheer  up  her  mother.  The 
only  one  to  whom  she  sometimes  revealed  her  true  feelings  was 
Elizabeth. 

One  day  she  had  a  long  conversation  with  Sister  Benigna,  to 
whom  she  poured  out  her  innermost  soul. 

"  You  see,  dear  Sister,  how  I  am  torn  by  doubts.  I  do  not 
know  what  I  ought  to  do,  nor  how.  On  one  side  is  my  long- 
standing desire  to  enter  the  religious  life  and  the  heavenly  Bride- 
groom seems  to  call  me  more  urgently  every  day.  On  the  other 
are  my  beloved  parents,  bowed  down  in  grief  and  sorrow,  and 
alone  on  earth  but  for  me.  How  can  I  leave  them  without  dis- 
obeying the  Divine  Commandment  to  love  our  parents?  I  feel 
as  if  I  were  divided  into  two  different  persons,  each  struggling 
against  the  other." 

"  My  child,"  the  bride  of  Christ  responded  gently,  "  there  are 
indeed  many  times  in  this  life  when  we  need  the  inspiration  of 
the  Holy  Ghost  in  order  to  be  reconciled  to  and  to  understand 
what  is  right  for  us  to  do.  Here,  however,  the  way  is  clear  before 
you — it  is  the  straight  path  of  filial  duty.  You  know  that  the 
convent  rarely  waives  parental  sanction,  and  ordinarily  it  is  one 
of  the  conditions  for  reception.  All  your  zeal  would  be  displeas- 
ing to  God  if  you  were  to  try  to  combine  the  life  of  a  religious 
Avith  disobedience  toward  your  parents." 

"  I  tell  myself  that.  But  then  again  there  are  hours  when 
I  seem  to  hear  a  voice  that  says — oh,  so  plainly ! — '  leave  all  and 
follow  Me.' " 

"  In  this  case,  child,  that  is  but  a  temptation  which  you  must 
put  behind  you.  Our  self-love  and  our  self-will  come  to  the  sur- 
face under  all  conditions  and  in  all  forms,  but  the  will  of  God 
alone  is  to  be  considered.  The  Christian  charity  that  you  would 
vow  to  exercise  toward  suffering  humanity  if  you  entered  our 
Order,  it  is  now  your  duty  to  exercise  toward  your  stricken  par- 
ents, and  from  this  sacrifice  the  same  merits,  the  same  blessings, 
and  the  same  graces  will  come  to  you." 


EMMY   GIEHRL.  129 

"  Oh,  Sister  Benigna !  "  sobbed  the  girl,  burying  her  face  in 
her  hands.  It  is  always  hard  to  give  up  a  cherished  hope,  and 
Marianne  had  secretly  given  herself  up  to  the  thought  of  her 
vocation  for  many  years.  Yet  now  she  saw  that  her  first  duty 
was  to  her  parents. 

"  And  there  is  no  hope  that  I  may  ever  follow  the  beautiful, 
longed-for  vocation  ? "  she  asked  for  the  last  time.  Sister 
Benigna  silently  shook  her  head  and  took  the  girl's  hand  and 
led  her  to  the  chapel.  There  both  knelt  in  prayer  for  about  a  half 
hour.  When  they  rose  Sister  Benigna  said,  smiling  through  her 
tears :  "  It  is  a  sacrifice  for  me,  too,  for  I  was  looking  forward 
to  your  coming  to  us.  But  the  holy  will  of  God  be  praised  and 
adored.  Have  faith,  my  child.  Our  Lord  will  know  how  to  get 
His  bride  when  He  needs  her." 

The  part  hardest  for  Marianne  w'as  over,  and  her  holy  angel 
carried  her  sacrifice  to  the  throne  of  the  Almighty. 

V. 

The  Franco-Prussian  war  was  on,  and  was  bringing  fear  and 
sorrow  to  countless  families.  In  the  common  misery  the  individ- 
ual suffering  disappeared.  Now  there  were  many  parents  mourn- 
ing the  loss  of  a  son,  though  the  patriotic  death  for  home  and 
country  w^as  less  bitter  than  the  wordless  disappearance  of  the 
erring.  The  one  was  a  hallowed  sorrow,  but  the  other  could  not 
well  be  told  nor  shared. 

But  even  this  grief  had  been  softened  for  the  Martens  in  their 
sympathy  for  the  general  woe.  Everywhere  funds  were  being 
raised  for  help  and  for  practical  w^orks  of  mercy.  Even  the  poor- 
est gave  his  little  contribution  to  help  the  defenders  of  the  Father- 
land. Every  w^ek  new  hospital  trains  set  out  for  the  scene  of 
battle  with  Sisters  and  nurses  and  doctors  to  help  the  wounded 
and  ease  their  sufferings. 

The  hospitals  of  the  city  had  sent  all  the  Sisters  they  could 
spare  to  France.  Under  their  direction  and  with  them  a  great 
number  of  women  and  girls  had  gone  as  nurses.  ^lany  an  un- 
dreamed of  talent  for  nursing  and  for  other  self-sacrifice  was 


130  CHILDREN  OF  MARY. 

thus  developed,  and  what  was  wanting  in  practise  was  speedily 
made  up  by  devotion  and  eagerness  to  serve. 

The  Martens  did  not  want  to  be  behind  in  helping  now,  and 
Marianne,  who  had  but  timidly  ventured  to  ask  permission  to 
join  a  hospital  train,  had  not  only  met  with  no  remonstrance, 
but  was  even  encouraged.  She  was  to  go  to  a  hospital  at  Ver- 
sailles under  the  direction  of  Sister  Benigna,  and  she  was  re- 
joiced that  she  could  thus  far,  at  least,  follow  her  beloved  voca- 
tion. She  went  to  Elizabeth  and  begged  her  to  take  her  place 
with  her  parents  until  she  came  back. 

Then  she  set  out  for  France,  followed  by  the  blessings  and 
prayers  of  her  parents. 

We  are  at  one  of  the  hospitals  in  Versailles.  The  fierceness 
of  war  is  over  and  the  power  of  love  now  has  play.  The  Daugh- 
ters of  St.  Vincent,  those  heroines  in  the  garb  of  peace,  are  tire- 
less in  their  ministrations  to  the  pain-racked  victims  of  the  ter- 
rible conflict.  Young  girls  as  well  as  older  women  are  helping 
them.  The  Sisters  and  nurses  move  about  noiselessly  in  the  airy 
apartment.  Only  here  and  there  the  moaning  of  the  wounded 
and  dying  is  heard. 

Marianne  von  Marten  is  sitting  at  one  of  the  beds  and  holding 
the  hand  of  a  young  soldier.  His  head  is  bandaged,  so  also  his 
arm.  The  ghastly  pallor  tells  of  great  loss  of  blood.  For  three 
weeks  the  young  patient  has  been  fighting  death,  but  a  hardy 
constitution  at  last  won  the  day.  All  these  days  and  nights 
Marianne  barely  left  his  bedside,  and  stood  by  him  nobly  in  the 
fight  against  the  grave. 

We  have  often  read  that  the  good  God  does  not  let  Himself 
be  outdone  in  generosity  by  His  creatures,  and  that  He  especially 
blesses  those  sacrifices  which  we  wring  from  our  self  will.  The 
heart  of  the  little  nurse  overflowed  on  this  day  with  purest  hap- 
piness.   The  young  soldier  was  Leo,  the  mourned  and  lost  brother. 

To  escape  punishment  he  had  fled  under  an  assumed  name 
from  his  parents'  house,  for  he  believed  himself  to  be  the  mur- 
derer of  his  opponent.  Soon  afterward,  however,  he  found  the 
notice  inserted  by  his  father,  which  gave  him  peace  of  mind  at 


EMMY   OIEHRL.  181 

least  in  one  direction.  But  he  was  still  afraid  of  his  many  credi- 
tors, and  so  stayed  away.  At  first  he  made  a  scant  living  by 
clerical  work.  But  after  a  while  he  drifted  into  Hamburg,  and 
here  his  tendencies  brought  him  into  gambling  places.  At  first 
he  won  over  and  over  again.  Then  growing  more  bold  he  ven- 
tured larger  and  larger  sums,  and  at  last  lost  all  his  winnings  at 
one  sitting.  Then  he  pawned  his  watch,  a  ring — everything  he 
could,  and  left  Hamburg  a  beggar.  And  again  he  went  to  work, 
miserably,  at  anything  he  could  get. 

His  conscience  often  reproached  him.  Sometimes,  too,  he  was 
tempted  to  suicide,  but  some  mysterious  force  seemed  ever  to 
hold  him  back.  Was  it  the  power  of  parental  love?  Was  it  his 
mother's  prayer  ?  At  any  rate  he  did  not  yield. 

Often,  too,  he  yearned  to  go  home,  to  beg  forgiveness  of  his 
father,  but  a  false  pride  held  him  back.  The  hour  of  grace  had 
not  yet  arrived.  Then  the  war  with  France  broke  out — the  war 
that  waked  the  enthusiasm  of  patriotism  in  the  heart  of  every 
man.  Leo  at  once  enlisted.  But  war  is  no  child's  play.  It  is 
bitter,  terrible,  bloody,  earnest.  Over  and  over  again  Leo  was 
face  to  face  with  death,  and  it  brought  home  to  him  the  follies 
of  his  misspent  life.  At  the  siege  of  Paris  he  was  dangerously 
wounded.  The  good  Sisters  made  every  effort  to  provide  at  least 
the  last  consolations  for  his  poor  soul,  but  he  lay  in  the  delirium 
of  fever,  racked  by  pain,  tortured  by  phantasies  of  fear  and  re- 
morse. 

When  at  last  his  senses  came  back  to  him  there  was  a  young 
nurse  at  his  bedside — and  she,  oh,  joy,  was  his  own  sister,  Mari- 
anne. She  brought  consolation  and  peace  to  him.  She  assured 
him  of  his  parents'  love  and  forgiveness,  and  the  grace  of  God 
completed  the  conversion. 

On  the  next  day — it  was  a  Saturday,  the  day  dedicated  to  the 
Blessed  Mother — he  made  a  good  confession  and  received  the 
last  sacraments.  But  the  crisis  had  passed.  Leo  recovered  not 
only  physically,  but  even  more  so  spiritually. 

The  Superior  of  the  hospital.  Sister  Benigna,  watched  over 
the  brother  and  sister  like  a  mother,  and  took  the  first  opportunity 


132  CHILDREN  OF  MARY. 

to  send  them  back  to  Germany  in  safety.  Leo  would  have  an 
easier  and  pleasanter  chance  for  complete  recovery  at  home — 
among  old  surroundings. 

Marianne  had  only  written  to  her  parents  twice.  The  first 
time  she  said: 

"  I  arrived  safely  in  Versailles  and  have  found  Leo.  He  is 
seriously  wounded,  but  we  have  hopes  of  his  recovery." 

Oh,  how  the  loving  and  anxious  hearts  of  the  parents  were 
filled  with  joy  and  gratitude  at  this  message !  How  they  praised 
the  mysterious  ways  of  Providence !  The  mother  knelt  before 
the  image  of  the  Blessed  Virgin  in  the  convent  chapel  and  prayed  : 
"  You  will  have  mercy  on  me,  oh,  Mother  of  grace !  You  will 
not  let  me  find  my  son  only  to  take  him  away  again."  And  be- 
side her  Elizabeth  knelt  and  wept  for  joy  and  pain. 

The  second  message  said :  "  Leo  is  recovering.  We  will  come 
in  eight  days." 

And  now  he  is  with  his  own  again.  Everything  is  forgiven 
and  forgotten — no,  not  everything.  They  want  to  remember  the 
miracles  of  divine  grace  forever.  The  flush  of  health  is  return- 
ing to  Leo's  cheeks.  He  will  soon  be  well  and  strong  again,  and 
will  then  make  up  for  lost  time.  He  learned  many  things  out 
in  the  world  among  strangers,  and  has  done  ample  penance  for 
the  follies  of  his  early  youth.  Now,  with  the  help  of  God,  he 
will  lead  a  different  life. 

His  parents  are  rejuvenated  in  their  joy,  for  happiness  and 
peace  of  mind  are  medicines  which  never  miss  their  effect.  As 
soon  as  the  Daughters  of  St.  Vincent  de  Paul  return  from  Franco, 
Marianne  will  renounce  the  world  and  put  on  the  habit  of  a 
novice  in  the  beloved  Order  toward  which  her  heart  has  been 
turning  for  years.  As  a  daughter  of  the  great  saint  she  may 
satisfy  her  generous  heart  and  offer  her  life  daily  for  the  salva- 
tion and  service  of  others,  as  she  desired  to  do  even  in  her  child- 
hood. She  may  not  even  grieve  now  at  leaving  her  parents,  for 
Elizabeth  has  taken  earnest  counsel  with  herself  and  has  recog- 
nized that  she  has  no  true  religious  vocation.    Her  desire  was  to 


EMMY   QIEHRL.  133 

be  with  Marianne,  and  one  does  not  go  into  the  convent  for  the 
sake  of  friendship.    God  wants  the  whole  heart. 

Elizabeth's  heart  is  really  no  longer,  her  own.  She  has  given 
it  to  Leo,  and  will,  as  a  pious  wife  and  mother,  try  to  do  her 
duty  in  the  world  and  replace  Marianne  in  the  house  of  her 
parents. 

Thus  God  brings  everything  to  a  blessed  end,  in  His  own  good 
time,  and  Mary's  care  surely  leads  her  children  aright. 


DR.    HERMAN    CARDAUNS. 

(H.   Kenier.) 

Under  the  pen  name  of  H.  Kerner,  Dr.  Herman  Cardauns, 
the  brilUant  managing  editor  of  the  Kolnische  Volkszeiiung,  has 
maae  an  enviable  reputation  in  pure  literature.  The  training  of  his 
newspaper  life  and  his  historical  studies  have  resulted  in  an  un- 
usual mastery  of  interesting  details.  He  has  the  quality  of  true 
genius — to  eliminate  the  non-essential  and  to  bring  out  his  scenes 
and  characters  with  a  few  lines  and  a  touch  here  and  there.  Old 
times  and  old  things  are  vivified  and  brought  to  the  eye  of  the 
present,  full  of  color  and  reality.  His  novels  are  crowded  with 
fascinating  incident  and  his  style  is  easy  and  flowing.  The  name 
of  Kerner  may  fairly  be  placed  beside  that  of  Riehl,  the  most 
noted  of  recent  German  historical  novelists. 

Herman  Cardauns  was  born  on  April  8,  1847,  in  Cologne. 
From  1864-1869  he  studied  at  Bonn,  Munich,  and  Gottingen. 
In  1868  he  passed  the  government  examination  for  a  professor- 
ship and  was  tentatively  engaged  at  a  Cologne  high  school  during 
1868-1870.  At  the  same  time  he  was  also  engaged  as  assistant 
in  the  division  for  historical  research  of  tne  Royal  Bavarian 
Academy  of  Sciences.  It  was  while  acting  in  this  capacity  that 
he  published  his  volumes  on  old  Cologne.     (Leipzig,  1874-77.) 

Towards  the  close  of  1872  he  became /r/Vw/  docent  at  Bonn, 
and  lectured  reguiarly  on  the  history  of  the  Middle  Ages  and  the 
history  of  the  Rhine  countries.  In  1876  he  became  managing 
editor  of  the  Volkszeifiini^  of  Cologne,  the  ablest  and  most  in- 
fluential organ  of  the  Centre,  or  Catholic  party,  of  Germany.  In 
spite  of  his  exhausting  editorial  activities,  he  managed  to  find 
time  for  nistorical  and  literary  labors.      He  published  works  on  the 


life  of  Alexander  III.,  of  Bishop  Conrad  von  Hochstaden,  of  Mary 
Stuart,  of  the  Jesuit  Father  Spee,  on  the  fairy  tales  of  Clemens 
Brentano,  and  so  on.  Since  1886  he  has  been  publishing  the 
papers  of  the  Gorres  Society,  organized  for  the  promotion  of 
Catholic  truth  in  Germany.  In  1891  he  became  the  general 
secretary  of  the  Society,  which  office  he  has  held  ever  since 
His  most  important  literary  works  are:  '"Die  Erzahlung  Walters 
des  Erzpoeten,"  "Die  Abendteuer  des  Johannes  Reusch,"  and 
"  Der  Stadtschreiber  von  Koln.'  His  numerous  short  stories  are 
scattered  through  the  German  periodicals,  av»aiting  collection  and 
publication  in  book  form.  From  1895  to  1899  Dr.  Cardauns  was 
a  member  of  the  Town  Council  of  Cologne.  He  is  as  noted  as 
a  lecturer  as  he  is  as  a  writer 


Ube  6oo&  2)ean  ]Ensfric&. 

A  Story  of  the  Twelfth  Century. 

BY    DR.    H.    CARDAUNS. 

CHAPTER    I. 

between  ST.  Mary's  and  home. 

The  church  bells  of  Cologne  were  just  ringing  for  the  Angelus, 
as  Dean  Ensfried  of  St.  Andrew's  came  down  the  steps  leading  to 
the  parish-house  of  St.  Mary's  as  fast  as  their  ice-smooth  surface 
and  his  old  legs  permitted.  He  was  seventy  years  old — a  thin, 
shrunken  little  mau.  The  pastor  of  St.  Mary's,  who  was  a  friend 
of  his,  had  buttoned  up  his  fur  cloak  for  him,  and  pulled  the  cap 
over  his  ears,  for  it  was  bitterly  cold.  But  when  the  Dean 
heard  the  bells  he  took  off  the  cap  his  friend  had  adjusted  so 
carefully,  and  knelt  for  the  Angelus.  The  years  had  left  deep 
lines  in  his  face,  but  his  head  was  still  fine  and  beautiful  in  its 
outlines,  perhaps  even  more  so  than  when  he  was  younger.  It 
was  long  since  he  needed  to  shave  for  the  tonsure.  All  there  was 
left  of  his  once  thick  hair  was  a  fringe  of  delicate  white  curls 
around  the  crown.  He  had  bright  red  cheeks,  and  about  the 
shrunken  mouth  and  in  the  blue  eyes  there  was  a  look  of  benevo- 
lence and  gentleness,  so  that  one  felt  at  the  first  glance  that  he 
was  surely  a  good  man. 

"  It  is  cold  indeed,"  said  Ensfried,  as  he  pulled  the  cap  over 
his  ears  again.  "What  will  the  poor  people  do  during  this  hard 
winter,  dear  Lord?  The  sparrows  fall  frozen  from  the  roofs; 
many  a  child  of  God  is  sitting  miserably  in  a  cold  and  drafty 
room,  while  we,  Thy  sinful  servants,  are  lounging  beside  the  warm 
fire,"    He  sighed  deeply,  and  went  along  for  a  little  way,  his 

1*7 


138  THE    GOOD    DEAN    EN8FRIED. 

kind  face  shadowed  at  the  sorrowful  thought.  Then  he  tight- 
ened his  lips  together,  and  nodded  vigorously  as  if  in  protesta- 
tion. "  If  I  could  only  get  at  my  wood !  "  he  said  aloud.  "  But 
Monica  has  the  keys  and  will  not  give  them  to  me.  She  says  that 
if  she  did  we  would  not  have  any  ourselves.  How  can  the  woman 
be  so  foolish?  Hasn't  she  been  my  cook  these  twenty  years? 
Just  wait,  you  old  kitchen  terror,  I'll  fix  you !  " 

While  he  was  going  on  in  this  way  Ensf  ried  had  descended  the 
narrow  street  that  led  from  the  Duck  Pool  to  the  Cat's  Back — 
the  stretch  now  called  E intrachtstrasse.  It  ran  along  beside  the 
fine  old  Church  of  St.  Mary's,  though  there  is  only  a  little  chapel 
there  at  the  present  time.  Here  the  boys  of  the  neighborhood 
were  coasting,  and  sliding  down  hill  to  their  hearts'  delight. 
When  they  saw  the  Dean  they  quickly  cleared  the  track.  Ensfried 
had  hardly  put  his  foot  upon  the  strip  which  they  had  worn 
glass-like  than  he  slipped  and  would  have  gone  over  backward 
but  that  a  stocky  wight  caught  him  at  the  last  moment. 

"  Steady  now,  your  reverence,"  he  said,  and  carefully  helped 
Ensfried  to  regain  his  footing.  "  This  time  you  almost  went 
over.  Will  you  get  out  of  the  way?"  he  screamed  at  the  boys. 
"  You  ruffians,  do  you  not  see  that  you  have  almost  caused  an 
accident?  What  are  you  doing?  Wait — I'll  make  you  fly !  "  and 
he  swung  a  heavy  stick  in  such  a  threatening  manner  that  the 
children  ran  away  screaming. 

"  Easy,  easy,  Heinz,"  said  the  Dean.  "  Childhood  knows  no 
limits — fifty  and  sixty  years  ago  we  were  just  like  them.  Come 
here,  lads,"  he  called  to  the  boys,  who  at  this  came  running  back, 
undismayed  by  the  burly  Heinz.  "  What  were  you  doing  just 
now  ?  " 

"  Sliding,  Reverend  Father,"  they  chorused. 

"  Then  slide  away,  but  be  careful  not  to  hurt  yourselves." 

In  a  second  he  was  surrounded  by  a  mob  of  children,  who 
kissed  his  hands  and  begged  for  holy  pictures.  He  gave  them  all 
he  had,  and  then  went  on.  He  had  gone  but  a  few  steps  when 
he  was  stopped  by  a  ragged  old  man. 

"  Well,  Herman,  is  that  you  ?    What's  the  matter  now  ?  " 


DR.    H.    CARDAUN8.  I39 

"  Matter  enough.  Reverend  Father.  What  need  to  ask  ?  Hun- 
ger and  sorrow  and  misery  every  day  that  God  sends.  Who  would 
have  thought  wlien  I  was  young  that  I  would  have  to  beg  for  a  bit 
of  bread  in  my  old  age  ?  " 

"And  in  the  human  way  you  have  indeed  merited  better 
things  than  that,  Herman.  You  were  always  a  good  workman, 
and  that  you  lost  your  right  arm  was  not  your  fault.  But  for 
heaven's  sake,  man,  what  is  the  matter  with  your  breeches? 
Your  bare  legs  are  sticking  out  through  the  holes  !  " 

"  I  have  no  others,  Father." 

Ensfried  put  his  hand  into  his  pocket  and  pulled  out  his 
purse.  "  Ah,  my  dear  son,"  he  said,  sadly,  "  Job  on  his  ash-heap 
had  not  less  than  I  have.  How  my  money  does  go !  Only  yes- 
terday my  nephew  Frederick  loaned  me  a  gulden — for  the  very 
last  time,  he  said,  but  then  he  has  said  that  often — and  now  it  is 
all  gone  again.  And  yet  I  can  not  let  you  go  this  way.  Wait 
a  moment." 

Between  the  church  and  a  high  garden  wall  there  was  a  little 
place  scarcely  thirty  feet  square.  Ensfried  looked  right  and  left 
hastily.  Not  a  creature  was  in  sight,  and  all  one  heard  was  the 
voices  of  the  children  playing  on  the  other  side  of  the  church.  So 
Ensfried  slipped  quickly  into  the  farthest  corner  of  the  little  place. 
After  a  few  minutes  he  came  out  again  carrying  something  in  his 
hand.  "  Here,  Herman,"  he  said,  "  is  something  to  protect  you 
against  the  cold.  Later  you  may  come  and  get  some  soup  at  my 
house.     And  now  God  keep  you.     I  am  in  a  hurry." 

Before  the  beggar  could  answer  Ensfried  was  hurrying  on 
past  the  "  sixteen  houses  "  that  are  now  curiously  called  Sach- 
senhausen " — "  Saxonhouses."  Sometimes  he  looked  around 
nervously  as  though  he  had  been  guilty  of  some  crime  or  other 
and  dreaded  pursuit.  Opposite  the  Beguin  Convent  on  the 
Stolkgasse — on  the  site  of  which  a  generation  later  the  world- 
famous  Dominican  convent  was  built — he  turned  off  toward  St. 
Andrew's. 


140  THE    GOOD    DEAN    ENSFRIED. 

CHAPTER    II. 

THE  DEAN  AS  A  HOST. 

The  St.  Andrew's  Foundation  comprised  a  number  of  build- 
ings and  was  really  a  little  world  by  itself.  In  the  background 
towered  the  stately  outlines  of  the  collegiate  church.  The  choir 
part  had  been  finished  only  a  short  time  before — it  was  an  ornate 
edifice^  in  a  clover-leaf  form,  while  the  older  part  was  simpler  in 
construction.  In  front  of  the  church,  and  completing  with  it  a 
great  enclosed  square,  were  the  other  houses  of  the  Foundation — 
the  archdeaconry,  the  chapter-house,  the  dormitory,  the  bakery, 
and  various  other  buildings  incidental  to  the  necessities  of  the 
place. 

At  his  appointment  as  Dean,  Ensf ried  did  not  go  to  live  in  the 
comfortable  dwelling  belonging  to  his  office.  He  left  it  to  a 
colleague  for  a  rental  which  promptly  went  to  the  poor,  and  he 
himself  lived  in  a  tiny  house  across  from  the  Foundation,  which 
had  come  to  him  from  his  parents.  That  was  twenty  years  ago, 
and  for  the  same  length  of  time  his  nephew  Frederick  had  lived 
with  him.  Ensfried  had  taken  the  orphan  to  his  home  when  he 
was  very  young  in  years,  and  even  after  Frederick  had  been  ap- 
pointed vicar  at  St.  Andrew's  he  continued  to  live  with  his  uncle. 
It  was  a  good  thing  for  both  of  them.  The  young  man  by  daily 
intercourse  with  his  relative  had  become  a  splendid  priest ;  that  he 
had  a  somewhat  practical  way  of  looking  at  matters  of  the  world 
was  really  no  reproach  to  him,  and  a  protection  to  his  uncle. 

"  I  must  look  after  uncle,"  he  was  wont  to  say,  "  or  else  he 
will  give  away  everything."  "Without  being  niggardly,  he  was 
much  more  careful  in  money  matters  than  the  Dean.  And  in  this 
regard  he  found  a  faithful  ally  in  Monica,  the  old  housekeeper, 
who  had  a  great  talent  for  management.  And  indeed  manage- 
ment was  often  most  necessary  in  the  Dean's  little  home. 

Frederick,  who  was  a  strong  and  well-built  man  in  the  early 
thirties,  was  sitting,  on  this  particular  evening,  in  the  best  room 


DR.    H.    CARDAVN8.  141 

of  the  Dean's  house.  With  him  were  two  intimate  friends :  Canon 
Gottfried,  who  was  the  clerk  of  the  Dean  of  the  Cathedral,  and 
the  merchant  Hartlieb,  a  broad-shouldered  man  in  the  attire  of  a 
rich  burgher,  with  a  clever  yet  good-natured  face. 

"  Did  I  not  tell  you  ?  "  Frederick  was  saying.  "  Supper  time 
is  past,  and  we  wait  and  wait.  But  it's  his  way.  He  likes  to  in- 
vite guests,  and  then  promptly  forgets  all  about  them.  I  am 
wondering  whether  he  even  thought  of  preparing  for  his  visitors." 

"  Oh,  about  that  you  may  be  easy,"  said  the  merchant  with  a 
sly  smile.  "  Monica  would  have  been  filling  our  ears  with  com- 
plaints before  this  if  it  were  otherwise." 

"  That's  true.  Yet  I  am  surprised  at  such  unusual  foresight. 
I  am  afraid  that  if  a  poor  man  had  come  along  he  would  have 
given  away  at  least  his  own  dinner  and  probably  mine  also.  I 
know  him  well.  You  have  no  conception  of  how  far  he  carries  his 
charity — depriving  himself  even  of  the  necessities  of  life,  and  the 
older  he  gets  the  worse  he  gets.  The  dozen  hens  sent  us  from 
the  Merkenich  farm  the  first  of  September  were  gone  before  six 
o'clock  in  the  evening.  For  St.  Martin's  Day  we  had  a  nice  fat 
goose  on  the  spit  and  the  whole  house  was  savory  with  the  odor. 
But  just  before  noon  some  woman  comes  up  out  of  the  Schmier- 
strasse  with  a  soup  tureen.  Monica  happened  to  be  in  the  cellar 
for  a  moment,  and  he  just  chucked  the  goose  into  the  woman's 
tureen.  When  I  discovered  the  misfortune  she  was  up  and  gone 
with  the  roast.  Sheer  starvation  would  have  been  my  lot  had 
1  not  come  to  you,  Canon,  as  self-invited  guest." 

"  I  hope  that  my  dinner  did  not  prove  a  second  disappoint- 
ment," laughed  the  Canon. 

"  Indeed,  no ;  thank  you.  The  dinner  was  very  good.  But 
listen  to  uncle's  latest  prank.  You  know  our  tenant  at  Widders- 
dorf  brings  us  six  hams  on  St.  Andrew's  Day,  every  year.  These 
I  take  under  my  particular  protection,  for  they  are  a  good  part 
of  the  rent,  and  the  farmer  knows  how  to  fatten  hogs.  Well,  I 
went  to  the  storeroom  every  day  and  counted  the  hams.  And 
each  day  I  was  more  and  more  surprised  to  find  the  full  number 
and  none  missing.    But  he  played  a  nice  trick  on  me.    Yester- 


143  THE    GOOD    DEAN    ENSFRIED. 

day  I  got  up  on  the  ladder  to  get  down  a  ham,  and  what  did  I  see? 
Every  one  of  the  six  was  cut  on  the  side  turned  toward  the  wall, 
some  of  them  even  to  the  middle !  Who  did  it  I  do  not  need  to 
tell  you,  and  who  got  the  meat  may  be  inferred." 

Hartlieb  laughed  heartily,  and  the  Canon  himself  could  not 
keep  his  face  straight.  "  Yes,  yes,"  he  said.  "  That  is  just  like 
him.  And  if  one  were  to  argue  with  him,  he  would  answer 
'  What  have  I  done  wrong?  Have  I  not  left  Frederick  his  half?  ' " 

"  Exactly,"  Frederick  exclaimed.  "  His  words  precisely ! 
And  much  good  that  does  me !  He  must  eat  ham  too — or  do 
you  think  that  I  would  let  him  suffer  when  it  is  he  who  has 
raised  me  and  made  a  decent  being  out  of  me  ?  " 

"  That's  right,  my  friend.  And  who  could  be  wroth  with 
that  saint  or  do  anything  ill  to  him?  For  that  he  is  a  saint  is 
not  to  be  denied.  Since  I  have  known  him,  and  that  is  about  forty 
years  now,  I  have  seen  nothing  but  what  was  good  and  lovable  in 
him.  Oh,  the  beautiful  golden  time  when  he  was  pastor  in 
Siegburg  and  I  was  a  schoolboy !  It  is  as  if  it  were  yesterday 
that  I  saw  him  for  the  first  time.  To  be  sure  it  was  under  con- 
ditions not  easily  forgotten.  I  had  brought  June  bugs  into  school 
in  my  cap,  and  then  let  them  loose.  For  punishment  I  was 
being  well  whipped,  when  the  new  pastor  came  in,  said  something 
to  the  teacher,  and  requested  that  I  be  sent  over  to  him  in  the 
afternoon.  I  was  a  little  rogue,  on  whom  every  effort  seemed 
lost.  But  the  way  he  talked  to  me,  until  even  I  began  to 
cry !  As  a  finish  he  sent  me  out  to  his  cherry-tree,  with  full 
liberty  to  pick  as  much  fruit  as  I  wanted  to,  and  I  promised  my- 
self then  and  there  that  I  would  never  displease  him  again. 
He  conquered  that  whole  wild  school  without  ever  a  harsh  word, 
laughing  and  playing  and  teaching  at  the  same  time.  If  ever 
there  was  a  priest  after  God's  own  heart,  it  was  he,  and  the  whole 
town  wept  when  he  was  sent  to  Cologne."  There  was  a  suspicious 
moisture  in  Ilartlieb's  eyes  as  he  finished. 

"  He  is  an  angel  in  the  flesh,"  Frederick  added  softly.  "  In 
the  whole  parish  of  St.  Paul,  which  is  cared  for  from  St.  An- 
drew's, there  is  not  a  dirty  hut  or  corner,  where  poverty  and 


DR.    H.    CARDAUN8.  143 

misery  hide,  that  he  does  not  find.  He  gives  away  the  very 
clothes  from  his  body,  and  for  his  suffering  brethren  in  Christ 
the  best  is  hardly  good  enough.  Where  he  gets  all  the  bread, 
the  wine,  and  the  money  that  he  distributes  daily,  is  beyond  my 
understanding.  But,  of  course,  in  the  matter  of  borrowing  for 
others  he  is  not  bashful.  I  have  had  my  own  trials  with  him." 
He  laughed  a  little  before  he  went  on  with  his  tale.  "  Eecently  it 
is  said  he  came  into  the  bakery  just  as  the  fresh  bread  was  to 
be  taken  to  the  Canons,  and  said  to  the  baker :  '  Give  my  regards 
to  the  reverend  gentlemen,  and  say  that  though  it  is  not  really 
right  for  me  to  do  so,  I  am  taking  this  bread  because  I  need  it 
very  much;  they  will  probably  be  able  to  get  along  without  it.' 
He  was  to  be  reproved  at  Chapter,  but  no  one  had  the  heart  to 
do  it.  And  with  all  this  he  is  not  really  such  a  soft  mark  that  all 
the  world  can  gull  him.  I  have  heard  him  speak  of  renegade  and 
dilatory  priests  in  a  way  that  fairly  gave  me  chills.  And  on  Sun- 
days, when  he  preaches,  one  seems  to  hear  the  trumpet  of  Judg- 
ment Day.  Yet  the  man  who  does  him  a  personal  injury  seems 
to  become  a  privileged  character  in  his  eyes.  About  three  weeks 
ago — I  never  told  this  to  anybody  because  he  did  not  want  me 
to — he  was  sitting  in  the  house  all  by  himself,  when  the  Scotch 
monk,  Moengal,  whom  they  have  sent  away  from  St.  Martin's, 
Ciime  into  the  room,  knife  in  hand,  grabbed  uncle  by  the  shoulder, 
and  said  he  must  have  money.  The  poor  fool !  As  if  uncle  ever 
keeps  money  when  he  has  it,  and  anybody  else  wants  it.  I  hap- 
pened to  come  in  just  then  and  went  for  the  wretched  beggar. 
But  the  Dean  said,  '  Let  him  be,  Frederick,  let  him  be.  Moengal 
was  just  getting  off  a  bad  joke.  And  go  out — I  have  something 
to  say  to  him.'  What  they  said  to  each  other  I  can  not  report. 
But  this  I  know — Moengal  came  out  of  the  room,  pale  as  death, 
his  eyes  full  of  tears.  He  has  given  up  his  dissipated  life  and 
is  doing  penance  working  as  a  common  laborer  in  a  convent." 

Somebody  knocked  at  the  door.  "  At  last,"  all  three  called  out 
in  chorus.  One  could  hear  old  Monica  slouching  across  the  hall ; 
a  moment  later  Dean  Ensfried  himself  entered. 

"  Ah,  see,  now,"  he  began,  his  kind  old  face  full  of  geniality, 


144  THE    GOOD    DEAN    ENSFRIED. 

and  holding  out  both  hands  to  his  guests.  "  This  is  nice  of  you, 
to  surprise  me  with  a  visit.  Will  you  share  my  simple  meal  with 
me?     You  are  most  heartily  welcome." 

"  Oh,  ho,  uncle,"  Hartlieb  answered.  "  To-day  you  surely 
arc  not  going  to  be  quite  so  modest  as  to  have  a  simple  meal? 
You  asked  us  to  come  the  day  before  yesterday." 

"  I  asked  you  ?  "  Einsf  ricd  seemed  very  much  embarrassed. 
"  Ah,  yes,  true.  My  old  head  refused  to  remember  for  a  moment 
but  I  have  given  Monica  orders  to  prepare  for  you.  Forgive  me 
that  I  forgot  for  the  moment  and  kept  you  waiting.  Dinner 
shall  be  served  at  once." 

Frederick,  who  had  been  a  prey  to  the  darkest  suspicions  as  to 
the  probable  prospects  of  dinner,  sighed  in  sheer  relief  at  the 
Dean's  words,  and  led  the  old  gentleman  to  the  fireplace  to 
take  off  his  fur  cloak  for  him.  Suddenly  he  drew  back  in 
alarm. 

"  For  heaven's  sake,  uncle,"  he  said,  "  where  did  you  leave  your 
breeches  ?  " 

The  Dean's  face  reddened  with  embarrassment  and  he  hastily 
drew  his  cloak  up  again  over  his  shoulders.  "  My  breeches  ?  I 
— I — what  do  you  mean?  Eeally,  I — Frederick — I  must  have 
dropped  them  somewhere." 

"  Of  course  you  dropped  them — but  you  probably  know  just 
where  and  who  picked  them  up.  Or  maybe  it  is  possible  that 
they  are  still  lying  somewhere  on  the  street." 

"  No,  no,"  the  Dean  protested.  "  How  can  you  think  any- 
thing like  that?  Poor  Herman  looked  so  cold,  and  his  were  so 
worn — " 

"  There  it  is  again,"  said  Frederick,  as  the  Dean  hastily  left 
the  room.  "  He  might  catch  his  death  in  this  bitter  cold.  But 
do  quit  that  tiresome  laughing,  Hartlieb.  And  you.  Canon,  why 
do  you  look  as  lachrymose  as  a  funeral  director?"  and  all  the 
time  Frederick  was  wiping  his  own  eyes. 

In  a  few  moments  the  Dean  came  back,  clothed  once  more  in 
breeches,  which,  if  not  as  good  as  those  he  left  with  Herman,  were 
at  least  passable.     "  So,"  he  said,  complacently,  "  and  now  we 


DR.    H.    CARDAUNS.  145 

ma}^  sit  down.  Monica,  is  everything  ready?  Our  guests  are 
hungry." 

For  answer  there  came  from  the  kitchen  an  unintelligible 
grumbling.  A  few  minutes  later,  a  tall,  lank,  gray-haired  woman 
came  in.  In  one  hand  she  had  half  a  ham,  in  the  other  a  loaf 
of  bread.  She  laid  both  on  the  table  with  a  bang,  and  then  burst 
out,  "  Here  is  the  food.     1  hope  you'll  have  a  good  appetite." 

The  two  clergjanen  exchanged  a  look  of  consternation,  while 
the  merchant  laughed  out  loud.  But  the  Dean  said  sternly : 
"  What  does  this  mean  ?  Bring  the  soup  and  let  us  have  no 
more  of  this  nonsense." 

"  What  nonsense  ?  "  asked  Monica.  '"'  All  afternoon  I  stewed 
and  roasted  and  baked.  An  hour  before  it  was  time  for  the 
Angelus  I  ran  out  of  the  kitchen  for  a  moment  and  when  I  came 
back  the  chickens  were  gone,  the  roast  also — and  the  Dean,  too. 
1  cried  for  anger,  and  was  ashamed  to  tell  Father  Frederick. 
Was  lame  George  here  again,  or  old  Catherine  with  the  five 
children?  How  often  have  I  begged  that  at  least  the  dinner  be 
spared  ?  '  Give  and  you  shall  receive,'  is  always  the  answer.  Now 
you  gave  once  too  often  and  you'll  have  to  see  what  you  will 
receive.  To  think  that  I  have  to  live  through  a  thing  like  this !  " 
and  Monica  began  to  sob,  covering  her  face  with  her  apron. 

The  Dean  looked  around  helplessly.  Then  Hartlieb,  with  a 
sly  wink,  said :  "  Do  not  let  her  frighten  you — I  believe  it  is  a 
joke.  Let  us  take  a  look  into  the  living-room:  perhaps  she  has 
served  the  dinner  there." 

The  Dean  opened  the  door  very  gingerly.  The  little  table  in 
there  was  covered  with  fine  linen,  and  from  the  soup  tureen 
arose  a  tempting  odor,  while  a  great  roast  waited  on  the  side- 
board. 

"  But,"  said  Ensf ried,  hesitatingly,  "  how  did  you  manage, 
my  good  Monica?  For  old  Catherine  was  really  here,  and  I  did 
give  her  something — perhaps  more  than  was  necessary." 

But  the  cook  shook  her  head  and  laughed  and  cried  by  turns. 
Then  Hartlieb  explained. 

"  You  see,  Dean,  you  proved  yourself  in  the  right  once  more. 


146  THE    GOOD    DEAN    ENSFRIED. 

'  Give  and  you  shall  receive.'  To  be  sure  it  was  lucky  that  I  came 
early  enough  to  look  into  your  pots.  And  now  sit  down,  old 
friend,  and  enjoy  yourself.  And  if  you  have  no  objection,  Mon- 
ica shall  get  herself  a  plate  and  sit  down  with  us  too." 


CHAPTER   III. 

AT    THE    archbishop's. 

The  guests  had  gone.  The  Dean  was  still  sitting  comfort- 
ably in  his  high-backed  chair.  "  Now  you  see,"  he  was  saying 
to  his  nephew,  "  our  dear  Lord  will  not  forsake  us." 

"  That  surely  came  true  to-day,"  said  Frederick.  "  But  He 
may  not  send  a  guest  like  Hartlieb  all  the  time.  And  how  do  you 
think  we  are  going  to  get  along?  You  have  borrowed  my  last 
gulden  and  you  yourself  have  not  a  penny  in  your  purse;  none 
of  the  rents  are  due  for  several  weeks.  What  now?  Shall  we 
borrow  money?  You  are  considerably  in  debt,  uncle,  and  not  a 
soul  will  lend  me  a  penny.  Many  would  do  so,  but  they  all  think 
that  you  get  everything  in  the  end — they  do  not  believe  you  are 
so  extravagantly  charitable.  If  you  only  do  not  sell  the  very 
house  over  our  heads  I  shall  be  thankful." 

The  Dean  became  very  red,  but  answered  meekly :  "  Do  not 
be  so  anxious,  my  dear  boy.  Had  I  not  all  my  life  kept  such  a 
deep  faith  in  the  promises  of  Scripture  I  would  long  since  have 
gone  to  my  grave  from  sheer  worry.  When  your  good  mother 
died  and  I  took  you  into  my  house  I  had  as  much  as  you  have  now 
— not  a  penny.  When  I  put  you  into  your  little  bed  on  the  first 
night  I  was  filled  with  anxiety.  But  then  the  thought  came  to  me 
that  he  who  takes  a  child  in  the  name  of  Christ  takes  Christ  Him- 
self. I  went  to  sleep,  and  the  next  morning  I  found  ten  ducats 
in  an  old  stocking  outside  my  door.  God  must  have  touched  the 
heart  of  some  good  man.  Since  then  I  have  always  trusted  in 
Cod.     Short  of  money  I  liavo  often  been,  but  very  rarely  hungry. 


DR.    H.    CARDAUNS.  U7 

As  for  you,  dear  nephew,  you  have  brought  me  blessings,  and  have 
been  the  joy  of  my  old  age." 

"  God  bless  you,  uncle,"  Frederick  said  softly.  For  a  moment 
there  was  silence  in  the  little  room.  Then  the  nephew  roused 
himself.  "  But  I  can  not  help  thinking  what  we  shall  do  for  to- 
morrow.    You  see  I  am  not  philosophical  like  you,"  he  said. 

"  Let  us  have  no  over-anxious  care  for  the  morrow,"  answered 
the  Dean.  "  To-morrow  will  take  care  of  itself.  I  just  remem- 
ber now  that  the  Archbishop  has  asked  us  to  dinner  for  to-mor- 
row. As  for  the  rest,  you  are  entirely  right  in  thinking  that  I 
ought  to  have  more  care  for  our  daily  bread,  for  your  sake,  and 
particularly  for  the  sake  of  old  Monica — the  faithful  soul.  It 
is  true,  too,  that  it  were  better  if  I  had  made  some  provision 
for  both  of  you  after  I  die,  for  it  will  surely  not  be  long  until 
(tod  calls  me.  But  I  have  always  been  drawn  most  powerfully 
toward  charity  to  my  fellow-beings,  and  I  can  but  trust  now 
that  God  will  keep  you  in  His  care,  as  He  has  me.  '  What  you 
do  to  the  least  of  these  My  brethren  you  have  done  unto  Me,'  has 
always  been  a  sweet  consolation.  The  time  has  come  when  I  can 
say,  '  0  Lord,  let  Thy  servant  go  in  peace.' " 

The  Dean  had  spoken  with  a  deep  solemnity,  and  Frederick 

did  not  answer  in  words.     Instead  he  knelt  at  the  feet  of  the 

venerable  man  and  kissed  his  hands,  and  for  a  blessing  laid  them 

on  his  own  head. 

*  *  *  *  * 

The  next  day  uncle  and  nephew  went  to  the  archiepiscopal 
residence  near  the  Cathedral  court. 

It  was  a  broad,  low  building,  with  Gothic  windows  from  which" 
there  was  a  beautiful  outlook  over  the  Ehine,  the  old  Cathedral, 
and  the  adjoining  Church  of  St.  Mary  of  the  Stairs.  The  Arch- 
bishop, Philip  of  Heinsberg,  received  them  pleasantly.  He  M'as 
famous,  first  as  a  supporter  of  Frederick  Barbarossa  and  later  as 
his  opponent,  and  he  played  a  mighty  role  in  the  affairs  of  the 
realm.  But  he  was  of  a  genial  mind  and  loved  a  joke,  and  felt 
most  kindly  toward  the  good  Dean  Ensfried. 

There  were  but  few  quests  besides  Dean  Ensfried  and  his 


148  THE    GOOD    DEAX    ENSFRIED. 

nephew — Dean  Conrad  of  the  Cathedral,  several  Canons  and 
clergymen.  The  food  was  simple  but  good.  At  the  dessert  the 
Archbishop  chanced  to  glance  at  Eusfried  and  saw  that  he  hastily 
put  something  in  his  pocket,  looking  around  the  while  to  see 
whether  he  were  observed.  But  His  Grace  did  not  let  it  appear 
that  he  had  noticed  anything. 

When  the  meal  was  over  and  the  guests  wished  to  go,  the 
Archbishop,  contrary  to  his  custom,  urged  them  to  stay  a  little 
longer.  They  all  sat  about  the  hearth-fire  and,  gently  encour- 
aged by  the  Archbishop,  began  to  relate  various  experiences. 
His  Grace  led  the  conversation  toward  Ensfried,  and  before  the 
latter  was  aware  of  the  turn  things  had  taken,  a  half-dozen  little 
stories  had  been  told  on  him.  Even  the  story  of  the  breeches 
was  not  forgotten.  Hartlieb  must  have  talked,  for  Frederick 
and  Canon  Gottfried,  at  whom  the  Dean  looked  reproachfully, 
vowed  they  had  not  uttered  a  word. 

The  Archbishop  was  delighted.  "  That  was  good  of  you, 
even  if  a  little  rash.  We  can  all  follow  your  example  when  it 
comes  to  charity,  and  the  main  part  is  that  your  right  hand 
never  knows  what  your  left  is  doing.  I  believe  that  this  applies 
even  to  your  legs.  In  short  you  are  a  true  householder  of  the 
Lord.  You  never  leave  your  house  without  giving  away  some- 
thing, do  you.  Dean  ?  Just  look,  gentlemen,  how  his  pockets  are 
stuffed.  I  am  sure  they  are  full  of  apples  for  the  children,  for 
to-morrow  is  the  feast  of  St.  Nicholas.  Let  us  see  if  you  have 
a  good  variety.     If  not,  I  shall  give  you  some  better  ones." 

But  the  Dean  was  by  this  time  painfully  red. 

"  Pardon,  Your  Grace,"  he  stammered,  "  it  isn't  apples — T 
haven't — I  thought — I  wanted  to — that  is — " 

"  No  refusal,  on  pain  of  my  displeasure.  Let  us  see  what  you 
have  in  your  pockets.  What — you  do  not  want  to  ?  Well,  well," 
he  said,  turning  to  the  Dean  of  the  Cathedral,  "  help  your  col- 
league." 

The  next  instant  Ensfried's  pockets  were  turned  inside  out. 
and  a  nice  collection  of  fine  white  bread  and  cake  appeared. 

"  What !  "  cried  the  Archbishop  sternly,  "  dainties  from  our 


DR.    H.    CARDAVNS.  149 

own  table?  That's  pretty  bad,  Ensfried.  Do  you  remember  the 
Seventh  Commandment  ?  " 

" '  Thou  shalt  not  steal/'  "'  said  Ensfried,  half-ashamed  and 
half-defiant.  "  And  I  did  not  steal  either.  Your  Grace  guessed 
aright.  To-morrow  is  the  feast  of  St.  Nicholas  and  to-night 
I  wanted  to  play  the  part  of  St.  Nicholas  among  some  of  the 
children,  but  I  have  no  money.  And  so  I  did  the  next  best  thing. 
Of  all  these  dainties  I  did  not  eat  a  bite,  but  put  my  portion 
into  my  pockets." 

The  whole  company  laughed  aloud.  The  Archbishop  alone 
preserved  his  solemn  and  threatening  manner,  although  it  was 
becoming  trying  even  for  him.  Frowning  he  said :  "  You  have 
done  very  wrong.  Dean.  At  our  table  no  person  is  permitted 
to  put  anything  in  any  place  except  his  mouth.  But  this  is  the 
result  of  your  secrecy,  which  is  totally  unnecessary.  A  word  from 
3'ou,  and  I  would  have  given  you  several  baskets  full  of  dainties 
for  the  children.  But,  no,  everything  must  always  be  done  on 
the  sly.  And  punishment  there  must  be.  I  suppose  the  hardest 
punishment  will  be  to  have  to  listen  here  in  my  presence  to  stories 
about  your  own  performances.  Now,  gentlemen,  whoever  knows 
a  story  on  the  Dean  of  St.  Andrew's,  let  him  tell  it." 

Ensfried  sighed.  Still,  he  seemed  to  perceive  kindliness 
rather  than  censure  at  the  bottom  of  the  Archbishoi)'s  words;  so 
he  waited  patiently  for  what  might  come. 

"Who  will  begin?"  said  the  Archbishop.  "Come,  Dean 
Herman." 

"  I  know  so  many,"  said  Dean  Herman,  with  an  apologetic 
smile.     "  Let  me  ponder  over  them  while  Dean  Conrad  starts  it." 

"  I  have  one  ready,"  said  Dean  Conrad.  "  And  indeed  it 
concerns  me  personally.  It  will  be  three  years  on  St.  Martin's 
Day  that  I  bought  Ensfried's  house  of  him.  It  is  not  worth 
much,  and  there  is  an  entailed  rental  on  it.  Nevertheless  I  paid 
a  good  price  and  in  cash  at  that.  I  waited  a  long  time  at  first 
before  I  spoke  to  him  gently  and  pleasantly  about  it.  But  he 
said  he  had  not  yet  found  another  house,  and  made  many  ex- 
cuses 3  at  last  he  almost  laughed  at  me,  saying :  '  My  dear  Conrad, 


150  THE    GOOD    DEAN    ENS  FRIED. 

can't  you  see  that  I  am  an  old  man,  who  can  not  last  much 
longer?  Wait  just  a  little,  then  you  will  get  your  house  as  a 
matter  of  course.  Until  that  time  I  surely  must  have  a  roof  over 
me.'  In  this  way  I  have  let  him  put  me  off  over  and  over  again. 
And  truly  he  is  capable  of  living  to  be  a  hundred  years  old,  I 
think.  But  now  I  am  tired  of  waiting.  To-morrow  morning, 
Ensfried,  I  am  coming  to  claim  my  house  and  take  possession  of 
my  property." 

"  Uncle,  uncle,"  cried  Frederick,  "  what  have  you  done — 
and  not  a  word  to  me ! " 

The  Archbishop  gave  a  quick  look  at  the  Dean  of  the  Cathe- 
dral and  turned  calmly  to  Ensfried  again :  "  This  is  a  very  bad 
slor}'^.  Dean.  Have  you  really  sold  your  house  to  Conrad?  Yes? 
Then  no  man  can  help  you  further,  for  the  bailiffs  of  Cologne 
will  take  no  nonsense  on  a  question  like  that.  Or  do  you  know 
some  other  way  out  of  this  difficulty  ?  " 

Ensfried  had  become  pale.  He  looked  imploringly  at  Fred- 
erick and  gently  pressed  his  hand.  Then  a  sudden  light  seemed 
to  pass  over  the  kindly  face.  He  raised  his  head  and  said :  "  It  is 
well,  Conrad — you  are  in  the  right.  To-morrow  I  shall  have 
another  house,  small  to  be  sure,  but  large  enough  for  me.  And 
now  permit  me  to  leave,  Archbishop.     I  must  go  for  vespers." 

The  guests  all  left  except  the  Dean  of  the  Cathedral.  The 
Archbishop  asked  him  smilingly,  "  Well  ?  " 

"  Forgive  me  for  having  a  little  fun  with  the  good  man," 
answered  the  Dean.  "Your  Grace  knows  that  I  would  not  put 
him  out.  But  it  may  be  that  he  himself  took  me  seriously.  If 
so,  I  should  be  very  sorry.  In  the  mean  time  a  little  scare  may 
make  him  more  careful.     I  shall  go  to  see  him  to-morrow." 

"  I  will  be  there,  too,"  said  the  Archbishop,  "  and  for  the 
fright  he  has  had  I  will  give  him  a  pleasure." 


DR.    H.    CARDAUNS.  151 

CHAPTER   IV. 

THE  REWARD  OF   ST.   NICHOLAS. 

When  Ensfried  returned  from  vespers  with  his  nephew  he 
found  a  great  basket  on  the  table  filled  with  fruit  and  cakes. 

"  See  that,"  he  called  out,  and  his  pleasure  was  like  a  child's. 
"  It  is  surely  from  the  Archbishop.  Come  in  here,  Monica. 
Have  you  seen  this  ?     St.  Nicholas  must  have  been  here." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  the  old  woman  sulkily.  "  He  didn't  bring 
you  a  house,  though,  I  notice."  And  the  old  cook  began  to 
cry. 

"  Never  mind,"  said  Ensfried  consolingly.  "  It  will  all  be 
well  to-morrow.  This  evening  is  St.  Nicholas'  Eve.  Here,  Mon- 
ica, is  your  portion  of  the  goodies.  Now  we  will  go  and  see  the 
children.     Each  of  you  take  a  basket." 

Night  came  on  as  the  three  went  from  hut  to  hut,  and  even 
Monica  became  gay  as  she  watched  the  joy  of  the  little  ones. 
Ensfried  himself  seemed  to  take  great  pleasure  in  the  joy  he  was 
giving,  laughing  and  playing  with  the  children  as  if  he  were  a 
child  too.  When  they  returned  late  in  the  evening  Frederick 
felt  that  he  would  like  to  talk  the  situation  over  with  his  uncle 
and  see  what  they  could  do  if  Dean  Conrad  really  insisted  on 
taking  possession.  But  Ensfried  did  not  even  permit  him  to  fin- 
ish his  sentence.  "  Let  him  come,"  he  said.  "  I  will  play  a 
trick  on  him  which  will  astonish  him.  But  now,  on  the  eve  of 
St.  Nicholas'  Day,  I  do  not  want  to  be  bothered  worrying  over 
to-morrow.  And  I  thank  you,  Frederick,  for  all  that  you  have 
done  for  me.  When  I  am  no  longer  here  say  a  prayer  sometimes 
for  my  poor  soul  and  be  kind  to  Monica.  She  deserves  it  in 
spite  of  all  her  grumbling." 

St.  Nicholas'  Day  had  come — a  clear,  beautiful  winter  day. 
The  sun  glinted  on  the  snow,  and  shone  pleasantly  into  the  little 


152  THE    OOOD    DEAN    EN8FRIED. 

room  where  Dean  Ensfried  sat  in  his  high-backed  chair.  He  had 
risen  long  before  sunrise,  although  his  head  seemed  heavy  and 
his  legs  numb.  Frederick  would  have  liked  to  persuade  him  to 
remain  at  home  from  Mass,  but  it  was  time  wasted  to  try.  After 
the  Dean  had  said  Mass  he  knelt  for  a  long  time  on  the  cold 
stones,  wrapt  in  fervent  prayer.  Chilled  to  the  marrow,  he  came 
into  the  house.  He  hardly  touched  his  breakfast.  There  was 
nothing  the  matter,  he  was  only  a  little  cold  and  tired,  he  said. 
Would  they  not  just  leave  him  alone  for  an  hour  or  so?  Quiet 
and  warmth  would  make  him  feel  all  right. 

So  he  had  been  sitting  there  for  a  long  time,  his  hands  folded 
on  his  knees,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  crucifix  that  hung  on  the  wall 
between  a  picture  of  St.  Nicholas  and  one  of  the  holy  Child  in 
the  manger.  His  face  alternately  showed  a  deep  earnestness  and 
then  again  a  happy  smile.  Once  his  lips  parted  and  he  whispered, 
"I  am  coming,  dear  Jesus,  I  am  coming,"  and  then  everything 
was  quiet  again. 

Frederick  opened  the  door  leading  into  the  little  room  softly. 
*'  Are  you  feeling  better  again,  dear  uncle  ? "  he  asked  gently. 
No  answer  came.  "  He  is  sleeping,"  he  said  then,  and  tiptoed 
to  the  big  chair,  looking  into  the  venerable  old  face.  What  he 
saw  there  made  him  start  back  in  alarm.  Hastily  he  took  his 
uncle's  hand,  which  lay  cold  and  limp  in  his.  With  a  cry  he  left 
the  room  to  get  help. 

An  hour  passed.  Ensfried  lay  motionless  on  his  bed.  Be- 
side him  stood  Archbishop  Philip,  the  Dean  and  the  Canon  of  the 
Cathedral,  Kutger  the  physician,  and  Hartlieb  the  merchant. 
Frederick  and  Monica  knelt  sobbing  at  the  foot  of  the  bed.  He 
had  been  anointed  as  quickly  as  possible,  and  bled.  It  was  a 
stroke  of  paralysis,  the  physician  said.  He  might  recover  con- 
sciousness once  more,  but  the  end  was  not  far  away. 

Ensfried  opened  his  eyes  and  smiled  softly  as  he  beheld  all 
the  familiar  faces.  "  Your  Grace  is  here,  too,"  he  said  brokenly 
to  the  Archbishop.  "  That  is  too  great  an  honor.  See,  Conrad," 
he  said  to  iho  Dean,  "  I  am  keeping  my  word.  My  new  house  is 
waiting  for  me  out  in  the  cemetery  of  St.  Andrew's,  and  for  the 


BR.    H.    CARDAVNS^  153 

two  or  three  days  until  I  am  quite  ready  for  it  you  must  still 
have  patience." 

"  Forgive  my  foolish  words,"  Dean  Conrad  said,  sadly.  "  One 
should  not  jest  about  such  things.  See  why  I  came  this  morn- 
ing," and  he  took  out  a  roll  of  parchment.  "  It  is  the  bill  of  sale 
torn  in  two.  This  is  what  I  wanted  to  bring  you  to-day.  Did 
you  really  think  me  so  hard-hearted  as  to  believe  that  I  could 
mean  what  I  said  last  night  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  did  not  think  of  it  at  all,"  Ensfried  answered.  "  When 
you  asked  to  have  possession  of  your  house  yesterday,  somehow 
the  story  of  St.  Nicholas  and  the  shepherd  boy  of  Leichlingen 
came  into  my  mind.  Do  you  know  it?  Frederick,  you  tell  it. 
Talking  is  very  hard  for  me." 

Frederick's  voice  was  so  husky  that  at  first  they  could  scarcely 
hear  it.  "  In  the  little  village  of  Leichlingen,"  he  began,  "  four 
hours'  travel  across  the  Ehine  from  here,  the  following  hap- 
pened about  seven  years  ago.  A  poor  boy  tended  sheep  for  a 
farmer's  wife.  He  had  a  great  devotion  to  St.  Nicholas,  the 
friend  of  children,  and  in  honor  of  him  he  shared  his  bread  every 
day  with  other  children  still  poorer  than  he.  One  day  the  saint 
appeared  to  him  in  the  form  of  a  venerable  old  man  and  said  to 
him :  '  My  good  boy,  drive  the  sheep  home.'  '  Sir,'  the  boy  re- 
plied, *  It  is  still  early,  and  if  I  take  the  sheep  home  now  the 
farmer's  wife  will  scold  me.'  The  saint  said :  '  I  am  St.  Nicholas, 
for  whom  you  have  always  had  a  deep  devotion  and  in  whose 
honor  you  shared  your  bread  with  poor  children.  To-day  I  have 
come  to  reward  you.  Go  home  and  receive  the  body  of  Our 
Lord,  for  before  evening  comes  you  will  die  and  come  to  me.' 
Then  he  vanished.  But  the  shepherd  boy  did  as  he  was  com- 
manded and  on  that  very  day  St.  Nicholas  led  him  to  the  fields 
of  eternal  joy." 

Ensfried  nodded,  smiling  happily.  "  I  thought  of  this  yes* 
terday  evening,  and  I  seemed  to  see  St.  Nicholas  as  he  is  painted 
on  the  picture  at  Burscheid,  which  the  first  Abbot,  Gregorius,  the 
son  of  the  King  of  Greece,  brought  into  our  land.  He  looked  at 
me  kindly,  and  said,  '  In  my  Father's  house  there  are  many  man- 


154  THE    GOOD    DEAN    ENSFRIED. 

sions.'  On  that  I  have  depended,  and  now  all  is  well.  You, 
however.  Canon  Conrad,  I  thank  with  all  my  heart  for  your 
generous  gift.  You  know  that  1  did  not  use  the  money  for  my- 
self." 

A  dull,  rumbling  noise  came  out  of  the  adjoining  hallway. 

"  What  is  that,  Frederick?  "  the  dying  man  asked  faintly. 

"  People  to  whom  you  have  been  kind,  uncle.  They  are 
crowding  the  hall  away  out  into  the  street,  where  they  stand  by 
the  hundreds  and  weep  and  pray,  and  will  not  believe  that  the 
Lord  is  going  to  take  you  from  them." 

Ensf  ried  sighed :  "  What  will  become  of  my  poor  people  ?  " 

"  Let  them  be  my  care,"  said  the  Archbishop,  and  held  out  his 
hand.  "  All  who  lose  a  father  in  you  shall  be  my  children. 
Leave  them  to  me  as  my  legacy  from  you.  I  will  care  for  them 
as  a  father  should,  with  the  help  of  God." 

Ensfried  half  raised  himself  in  bed.  A  happy  smile  lit  u]) 
his  face.  "  God  be  praised,"  he  whispered ;  he  gave  a  gentle 
pressure  to  the  Archbishop's  hand,  and  fell  back  on  the  pillows. 
Peacefully,  without  a  struggle,  he  had  passed  into  the  better  life. 

The  Archbishop  bent  over  him  tenderly,  closed  his  eyes,  and 
said:  "''Blessed  are  the  merciful,  for  they  shall  obtain  mercy.' 
Peace  to  the  soul  of  the  good  Dean  Ensfried." 


•-^-^ 


CONRAD    VON    BOLANDEN. 


This  is  the  pseudonym  of  Monsignor  Joseph  Bischoff,  living  in 
retirement  at  Speyer  since  1870.  It  may  well  be  said  that 
Bolanden  is  the  most  popular  and  widest  read  of  contemporary 
German  Catholic  fiction  wi iters.  He  was  born  on  August  9,  1828, 
at  Gailbach  in  the  Rhenish  Palatinate.  He  studied  theology, 
and  later  was  the  parish  priest  in  Bdrrstedt,  and  then  at 
Beghausen,  near  Speyer.  After  giving  up  parish  work  he  de- 
voted himself  entirely  to  literary  labors.  He  was  made  a 
Papal  Chamberlain  by  Pope  Pius  IX.,  in  recognition  of  the  merits 
of  his  efforts  in  the  field  of  Catholic  literature.  Since  then  his 
labors  have  been  prodigious.     Almost  every  year  he  has  produced 


several  new  volumes.  The  motive  of  his  books  he  has  found  in 
history  and  in  the  problems  of  social  life.  He  is  a  brilliant  rep- 
resentative of  the  historical  school  of  fiction.  The  great  struggles 
between  the  Papacy  and  the  imperial  power  at  the  time  of 
Barbarossa  and  Henry  IV.,  the  Reformation  and  the  peasant 
uprisings,  the  Massacre  of  St.  Bartholomew's,  the  march  of 
Gustavus  Adolphus  against  the  imperial  troops,  Frederick  the  Great 
and  the  French  Revolution,  these  are  the  events  that  he  knows 
how  to  weave  into  breathless  narratives  full  of  fascinating  personal 
interest. 

All  of  his  novels  do  not  rise  to  the  same  high  standard.  When 
he  touches  upon  modern  times  he  becomes  partisan  and  didactic, 
giving  but  little  margin  to  poetry  and  the  imagination.  He  then 
has  other  aims  than  merely  to  please.  He  wants  to  clear  the 
atmosphere.  Indeed  his  heroic  tales  are  written  with  a  purpose 
too.  It  is  to  refute  some  of  the  lies  of  history.  Many  critics 
condemn  the  purpose  novel  entirely  as  inartistic.  Nevertheless. 
Bolanden  has  written  a  series  of  books  which  belong  to  the  best 
that  German  literature  has  produced  in  the  romantic  field.  His 
earlier  novels  are  particularly  to  be  commended  "  Luther  s 
Brautfahrt "  (1857),  "Franz  von  Sickingen"  (1859),  "  Konigin 
Bertha"  (1860),  "Barbarossa"  (1862),  "  Gustav  Adolph  "  (1867- 
1870).  "Canossa"  (1872).  After  these  followed:  "Urdeutsch" 
(1875).  "  Bartholomausnacht "  (1879),  "  Altdeutsch "  (1881), 
"Savonarola"  (1882),  "  Neudeutsch "  (1883),  "Die  Kreuz- 
fahrer"  (1885-1887),  "Wambold"  (1889),  "Deutsche  Kultur- 
bilder"  (1893),  "Karl  der  Grosse "  (1895).  "Die  Arche  Noah" 
(1896).  "Otto  der  Grosse"  (1898).'  During  these  years  also 
appeared  the  social  romances:  "Die  Aufgeklarten "  (1864). 
"Angela"  (1866).  "  Die  Schwarzen  und  die  Rothen  "  ( 1868),  "Die 
Unfehlbaren"  ( 1875),  "  Bankrott  "( 1877),  "Die  Ultramontanen  " 
(1890).  "Die  Sozialen"  (1891).  "Die  Sozialdemokraten  und  ihre 
Vater"  (1894),  "Die  Volksverderber "  (1896).  He  has  also 
written  a  series  of  short  stories.  Many  of  his  books  have  gone 
through  ten  and  twenty  editions. 

Bolanden's  style  is  always  strong,  impressive,  and  ardent.  Some- 
times he  is  blunt  to  the  point  of  portraying  scenes  that  might 
meet  with  objections  on  account  of  the  hypersensitive  and  the 
young.  On  the  other  hand,  this  is  a  world  of  men  and  women, 
and  a  man  of  such  profound  purpose  and  seriousness  as  Bolanden 
can  not  always  be  held  within  the  limitations  of  the  hypersensitive, 
nor  of  the  young  person. 


f^irxQ  IRatbo^o. 

A  Tale  of  the  Seventh  Century. 

BY    CONRAD    VON    BOLANDEN. 


I. 

The  region  between  the  Ehine,  the  Ems,  and  the  sea  was  oc- 
cupied by  the  Frisians  even  in  the  earliest  known  times. 

The  Eoman  historians  do  not  give  us  a  pleasant  picture  of 
Frisia.  What  Tacitus  and  Pliny  relate  of  the  swamps  and  mo- 
rasses of  Germany  was  true  of  Frisia  in  a  greater  degree.  Even 
in  the  seventh  century  the  Christian  missionaries  found  a  wild 
and  uncultivated  country,  wherein  it  was  hardly  possible  for 
human  beings  to  exist.  Here  the  Frisians  lived,  surrounded  by 
water,  in  it  and  on  it,  almost  like  the  fishes. 

Nevertheless  no  Teuton  tribe  was  more  jealous  of  its  inde- 
pendence and  liberty  than  the  Frisians.  They  were  overpowered 
by  the  Romans  and  paid  tribute  to  the  mistress  of  the  ancient 
world  for  a  time.  Moreover,  they  also  stained  their  honor  with 
treachery  against  their  fellow  tribes,  by  serving  the  Eoman  Drusus, 
the  stepson  of  Augustus.  But  their  submission  did  not  last  long. 
As  far  back  as  the  year  28  A.  D.  they  rose  against  the  Eomans, 
defeated  Julius  Apronius,  and  that  in  so  bloody  a  battle  that  the 
Eomans  never  after  dared  to  attack  them. 

The  Frisians  were  as  devoted  to  their  traditional  customs, 
habits,  and  religion  as  they  were  to  their  liberties.  They  stub- 
bornly closed  their  hearts  to  the  rising  tide  of  Christian  and  civ- 
ilizing influences.  The  holy  bishops,  Amandus,  Eligius,  Wilfred, 
and  others,  came  to  them  and  endured  the  hardships  of  the 
Frisian  wildernesses  with  heroic  devotion.    But  the  teachings  of 

167 


168  KING   RATBODO. 

Christianity  were  not  to  Frisian  taste.  Thc}^  wanted  to  live 
after  tlie  ancient,  barbaric  niauner,  without  putting  a  curb  on 
their  desires  in  the  commandments  of  a  God  who  thought  very 
differently  than  did  their  gods.  Their  gods  never  denied  them 
anything  they  longed  for.  Never  did  the  warlike  Weda  refuse 
the  right  of  might.  All  the  spoils  a  brave  man  could  take  were 
his.  It  was  honorable  to  attack  neighboring  countries,  kill  who- 
ever resisted,  and  return  laden  with  plunder. 

To  this  traditional  custom  Christianity  opposed  the  com- 
mand to  love  one's  neighbor,  to  respect  the  possessions  of  others, 
and  condemned  pillage  and  murder.  Their  goddess  Foseta,  who 
presided  over  the  scanty  harvests,  commanded  but  the  slaves,  the 
old  and  the  weak,  to  till  the  fields,  while  the  free  and  the  able- 
bodied  men  lay  around  in  idleness  or  went  on  plundering  expe- 
ditions. The  Frisians  never  neglected  to  offer  her  sacrifice  when 
they  set  out  on  their  raids  of  pillage  and  murder. 

They  thought  the  command  of  the  Christian  God,  who  laid 
the  necessity  of  work  upon  free  men  also,  contemptible  and  de- 
grading. Their  goddess  Hertha  loved  debauching  feasts,  when 
she  passed  through  the  land  in  her  covered  wagon  drawn  by  cows. 
Xeither  did  she  take  it  unkindly  when  they  broke  one  another's 
skulls  at  the  drunken  carousals  held  in  her  honor.  But  the 
missionaries  preached  abnegation,  temperance,  and  forgiveness. 

Considering  these  contrasts,  it  is  not  to  be  wondered  at  that 
the  efforts  of  the  missionaries  had  little  or  no  result.  These 
rough  men  knew  very  well  that  their  gods  and  their  feasts  would 
disappear  with  the  acceptance  of  Christianity.  Therefore  they 
stiffened  their  strong  necks  against  the  call  to  the  kingdom  of 
God.  They  closed  their  eyes  to  the  light  and  dwelt  in  the  dark- 
ness. To  win  the  favors  of  their  gods  by  human  sacrifices,  to  be 
lucky  robbers,  and  brave  warriors,  seemed  better  and  more  manly 
to  them  than  to  submit  their  wild  passions  to  the  gospel  of  peace. 

But  the  Frisians  were  not  to  be  permitted  to  remain  in  their 
inherited  barbarity.  They  themselves  forged  the  hammer  that 
was  to  break  down  their  obstinacy. 

The  boundaries  of  Austrasia,  the  eastern  part  of  the  Frankish 


CONRAD    VON    BOLANDEN.  159 

empire,  and  its  rich  settlements,  spurred  the  Frisians  to  frequent 
raids.  King  Katbodo  had  gathered  his  warriors  once  more  and 
had  broken  into  the  land  of  the  Franka,  carrying  fire  and  murder 
wherever  he  went.  But  this  time  he  did  not  get  very  far.  Like  a 
storm  wind,  Pepin  of  Heristal  and  his  Franks  came  from  the 
Upper  Ehine,  defeated  the  Frisians  in  684,  and  united  the 
southern  part  of  Frisia  with  his  own  domains.  He  even  took 
Wiltaburg,  as  Utrecht  was  then  called,  where  was  the  residence 
of  King  Eatbodo.  There  Pepin  intended  to  establish  an  episcopal 
see,  as  a  dam  against  Frisian  paganism.  He  sent  St.  Willibrord 
to  Rome  with  the  request  that  the  Pope  consecrate  him  Bishop  of 
Frisia. 

In  South  Frisia,  where  Pepin  ruled,  the  Bishop  was  very  suc- 
cessful. But  in  Xorth  Frisia  King  Eatbodo  remained  obstinate 
to  Christian  teaching,  though  he  permitted  the  missionaries  to 
preach,  and  had  even  promised  the  victorious  Pepin  that  he 
would  receive  baptism. 

St.  Willibrord  returned  from  North  Frisia  to  his  see  in 
Utrecht,  having  wrought  but  few  conversions,  and  narrowly  es- 
caped death  himself.  But  he  was  not  gone  long  when  a  man 
appeared  like  whom  there  seemed  to  be  no  other,  for  his  preach- 
ings were  confirmed  by  wonders  and  miracles.  This  man  was  St. 
Wulfram,  Archbishop  of  Sens,  in  Neustria,  the  western  part  of 
Prankish  dominion.  His  prayers  healed  the  blind  and  lame,  and 
even  brought  the  dead  to  life. 

Appointed  by  God  to  preach  the  gospel  to  the  Frisians,  he  ob- 
tained the  sanction  and  help  both  of  King  Childebert,  of  Neustria, 
and  of  Pepin,  of  Heristal,  of  Austrasia,  thus  having  back  of  him 
the  entire  power  of  the  east  and  west  domains  of  the  mighty 
Franks.  Wulfram  set  the  affairs  of  his  see  in  order,  placed  them 
in  the  hands  of  a  successor,  and  then  went  to  the  Abbey  of  Fonti- 
nella.  There  he  selected  several  devout  and  learned  monks,  and 
sailed  down  the  Seine,  and  out  into  the  sea,  landing  on  the  North 
Frisian  coast. 

King  Eatbodo  received  the  new  missionary  rather  kindly  and 
permitted  him  to  preach  the  God  of  the  Christians  to  the  people. 


160  KING    RATBODO. 

II. 

All  paganism  had  one  horror  in  common — that  was  human 
sacrifice.  The  cultured  Greeks  and  Romans,  as  well  as  the  bar- 
barous Sc}ihians  and  Teutons,  killed  human  beings  in  honor  of 
their  gods.  Even  the  chosen  people  of  the  Lord,  the  Jews,  fell 
into  the  terrible  error,  in  the  periods  in  which  they  turned  away 
from  the  true  God.  Jehovah  threatened  through  Moses :  "  If  any 
man  of  the  children  of  Israel,  or  of  the  strangers  that  dwell  in 
Israel,  give  his  children  to  the  idol  jMoloch,  dying  let  him  die." 

Moloch  was  a  truly  diabolical  invention.  He  had  a  bull's 
head,  and  was  made  of  metal,  hollow  on  the  inside.  He  was 
heated  until  red  preparatory  to  the  sacrifice.  Then  living  chil- 
dren were  laid  on  his  glowing  arms,  and  that,  too,  in  the  presence 
of  their  mothers,  who  were  not  permitted  to  weep  for  fear  of  de- 
stroying the  pleasure  of  the  god.  To  drown  the  crying  and 
moaning  of  the  roasting  children  there  was  much  singing  and 
noisy  music.  Even  the  punishments  and  warnings  of  the  true 
God  were  not  always  potent  enough  to  destroy  this  horrible 
worship. 

All  Teutonic  tribes  had  sacred  groves  in  which  dwelt  their 
gods  and  where  their  feasts  were  celebrated.  The  slightest  harm 
done  to  a  tree  in  one  of  these  groves  was  punished  by  death.  On 
the  day  of  the  feast  of  Weda  the  Frisians  streamed  to  the  sacred 
grove,  whose  mighty  oaks  crowned  a  hill  rising  in  rolling  lines 
out  of  the  surrounding  plain.  The  women  had  decorated  their 
attire  with  bright-colored  ribbons,  and  the  men  and  boys  were  in 
battle  array.  Behind  the  crowds,  horses,  oxen,  and  swine  were 
led  along,  wreathed  with  oak-leaves,  and  gay  with  strips  of  bright- 
colored  cloth.  The  beasts  were  to  be  offered  to  Weda  and  their 
flesh  eaten  at  the  feast  to  follow.  There  were  also  in  the  train 
wagons  loaded  down  with  kegs  of  beer  and  mead.  Around  these 
wild  crowds  danced  and  sang,  enjoying  their  contents  in  anticipa- 
tion. 

The  sacrificial  victim  was  always  chosen  by  lot.  The  young 
man  who,  according  to  custom,  was  to  be  sacrificed  to  Weda  on  this 


CONRAD    VON    BOLANDEN.  161 

day  was  a  touching  sight.  His  head  was  wreathed  with  oak-leaves 
and  his  clothing  gaily  decorated.  But  his  face  was  pale  with 
dread,  and  with  dull  eyes  he  walked  between  two  armed  men, 
deaf  to  the  cries  and  cheers  of  the  passing  youth  of  his  own  age. 
Just  behind  him  walked  his  parents,  their  faces  distorted  by 
grief,  showing  that  superstition  and  hideous  custom  were  not 
strong  enough  to  suppress  all  human  emotion. 

As  they  neared  the  sacred  grove  a  troop  of  horsemen  galloped 
by.  King  Eatbodo  at  their  head.  His  clothing  was  of  rich  stuffs, 
undoubtedly  the  spoils  of  some  foray  into  southern  lands,  for 
the  Frisians  went  even  as  far  as  Spain.  The  embroidered  mantle 
fluttered  in  the  breeze,  disclosing  the  tight-fitting,  gold-trimmed 
under-body.  On  his  head  was  a  helmet,  surmounted  by  an  eagle 
with  spread  wings.  In  his  leather  belt  hung  a  heavy  sword  with 
glittering  hilt.  As  he  passed  he  glanced  sharply  at  the  poor,  be- 
dizened victim.  When  he  saw  the  pale  youth  and  weeping  parents 
a  scornful  look  came  into  his  weather-beaten  face.  He  checked 
his  horse  and  turned  to  his  nearest  follower. 

"  Weda's  choice  seems  a  peculiar  one  to-day.  I  did  not  think 
that  our  god  of  war  liked  rabbit-hearts.  How  does  it  seem  to 
you,  Viderich  ?  " 

"  I  am  always  of  your  opinion,  king,"  answered  Viderich, 
whose  helmet  sported  two  mighty  bull's  horns.  "  As  for  the 
rest,  the  gods  must  have  their  way." 

"Of  course.  As  long  as  Weda  likes  human  blood  and  helps 
us  in  our  battles,  he  may  have  his  will,"  said  the  king  with  a 
short  laugh. 

His  manner  showed  no  reverence  for  the  gods.  To  him 
they  were  convenient  so  long  as  the  religious  customs  and  beliefs 
suited  his  personal  desires.  They  were  to  him  a  political  measure 
— and  in  this  the  Frisian  barbarian  was  not  unlike  rulers  of  far 
later  and  different  times. 

As  soon  as  the  Frisians  reached  the  sacred  grove  their  boister- 
ous manner  changed,  and  they  became  very  quiet.  Free  from  all 
underbrush  and  aftergrowths,  the  grove  was  composed  only  of 
great  oaks,  whose  immense  trunks  were  like  vast  pillars.     No 


162  KllS'a   RATBODO. 

game  was  permitted  in  the  grove  and  no  bird  allowed  to  rest  or 
build  its  nest  there.  Hence  the  silence  of  the  grave,  gloom  and 
darkness.  A  sluggish  stream  flowed  through  the  forest,  its  waters 
seeming  black  in  the  half  light.  Out  of  this  murky  pool  welled 
the  sacred  spring.  Beside  it  stood  the  temple.  There,  in  the 
innermost  part  of  the  sanctum,  were  the  chief  gods.  At  the  foot 
of  the  grim  old  oaks  surrounding  a  circular  opening  tlie  gods 
were  placed  on  rough  stone  bases.  They  were  all  covered  with  a 
dark  crust — the  sacrificial  blood  that  had  been  poured  over  them. 
The  surrounding  trees  were  also  blood-bespattered,  and  hung 
with  fresh  and  withered  garlands,  tablets  covered  with  Runic 
inscriptions,  and  other  decorations. 

In  the  temple  itself  were  many  other  images  standing  against 
the  walls  and  facing  the  altar.  Suspended  from  the  ceiling,  on 
an  iron  chain,  hung  an  immense  kettle,  in  which  the  flesh  of 
animals  sacrificed  was  cooked.  Against  the  walls  hung  pans, 
bowls,  knives,  axes,  and  other  implements.  Numerous  skulls 
standing  on  the  surrounding  shelves  filled  the  Christian  beholder 
with  repugnance.  They  belonged  to  enemies  and  it  was  the  cus- 
tom to  drink  out  of  them  on  the  feasts  of  Weda  as  well  as  at  other 
times. 

A  low  wall  shut  off  the  temple  and  sacred  trees,  and  outside 
of  the  priest,  his  assistants,  and  those  who  brought  offerings  to 
the  gods,  no  one  was  permitted  to  go  within  this  wall. 

Crowded  together,  and  in  utter  silence,  the  Frisians  stood 
about  the  temple  and  the  sacred  place.  There  was  nothing  of  re- 
ligious emotion  to  be  seen  on  any  of  the  faces — mere  curiosity, 
oftener  impatience  at  the  delay  of  the  joys  of  the  feasting  to  come. 
Some  of  the  older  men  and  women,  for  whom  the  pleasures  of 
the  flesh  no  longer  held  any  allurement,  had  thrown  themselves 
down  before  the  trees  in  the  vicinity  of  the  temple,  imploring 
the  help  of  the  gods  who  were  supposed  to  live  in  them. 

In  the  foremost  ranks  of  the  waiting  crowd  stood  the  king, 
surrounded  by  those  bravest  in  battle  and  wisest  in  council.  He 
peered  anxiously  into  the  gloaming  of  the  temple,  where  one 
could  faintly  see  moving  figures.     The  day  was  an  important 


CONRAD    VON   BOLANDEN.  163 

one  to  him,  for  out  of  the  intestines  of  the  sacrificial  beasts  the 
Alruna  women  were  to  read  the  will  of  Weda  to  him.  It  was  not 
because  the  king  cared,  but  because  the  superstition  of  his  people 
demanded  the  sanction  of  the  war  god  for  their  expeditions,  and 
the  king  and  his  counselors  had  been  planning  another  raid  into 
Austrasia,  despite  the  drubbing  given  them  by  Pepin  of  Heristal. 

The  deep  call  of  horns  at  last  announced  the  beginning  of  the 
feast.  Out  of  the  temple  came  the  stately  figure  of  the  priest, 
clad  in  a  long,  Avhite  robe,  a  flowing  white  drapery  on  his  head. 
In  contrast  with  the  rest  of  the  men,  who,  according  to  the  cus- 
tom of  the  country,  were  either  smooth-faced  or  had  but  a  mus- 
tache, he  wore  a  flowing  beard.  In  his  hand  he  carried  a  white 
wand,  the  sign  of  his  dignity.  Following  him  were  two  Alruna 
women,  or  prophetesses.  They  were  uncanny-looking  old  crea- 
tures, whose  gray  hair  fell  unbound  down  their  back.  They,  like 
the  priest,  were  barefooted,  and  were  also  clad  in  long,  white  robes, 
held  together  from  throat  to  feet  by  shining  hooks.  A  bright 
copper  girdle  held  their  robes  over  the  hips,  and  in  their  hands 
they  carried  long  knives,  intended  to  cut  the  throats  of  the  sac- 
rificial animals  or  of  the  human  victims  if  there  were  any.  After 
them  came  several  of  the  priest's  helpers.  They  carried  a  rope 
and  a  ladder. 

At  the  same  time  Ovo,  the  bedecked  and  garlanded  victim, 
was  led  forward  by  his  parents.  The  unhappy  youth  had  the 
calm  of  utter  despair.  His  eyes  were  downcast.  The  convulsive 
twitching  of  his  ghastly  face  was  the  only  evidence  of  his  dumb 
misery.  His  mother,  however,  had  lost  all  control  of  herself. 
She  wept  and  moaned  while  the  father  submitted  in  sullen  silence 
to  the  hideous  custom. 

To-day  the  victim  was  not  to  be  sacrificed  by  the  knife  of 
the  Alruna  women,  but  to  be  strangled  to  death  by  hanging.  The 
helpers  were  beginning  to  pull  up  the  rope  when  strange  sounds 
came  through  the  trees.  They  paused,  startled,  listening.  It 
was  the  trained  voices  of  monks  chanting  a  psalm,  and  sounding 
through  the  ghastly  grove  of  the  bloody  gods  like  a  confession 
of  the  oiie  true  faith.     Now  the  singers  were  coming  into  sight. 


164  KING   RATBODO. 

First  walked  a  tall  man,  with  raised  eyes  and  uplifted  right 
liand.  lie  wore  a  long  black  robe  with  a  white  girdle,  and  the 
tliree  men  who  followed  him  were  clad  in  the  same  way. 

Involuntarily  the  Frisians  gave  way  before  them. 

"  Brave  King  of  the  Frisians,  we  give  you  greeting,"  said  the 
leader. 

''  I  return  your  greeting,  Bishop  Wulfram.  Why  do  you  in- 
terrupt our  feast  ?  " 

The  last  words  were  not  spoken  reproachfully,  but  with  a 
pleasant  smile.  Political  reasons  moved  Eatbodo  to  be  agreeable 
to  a  man  who  was  held  in  high  regard  in  the  western  court  of 
the  Franks. 

"  Do  not  be  wroth  with  me,  gracious  king,"  answered  the 
saint  gently.  "  I  have  come  to  protest  against  a  sacrifice  that  is 
an  abomination  before  the  face  of  the  almighty  God.  Give  me 
the  life  of  that  youth." 

"  It  is  true,  you  ask  but  little — I  should  like  to  give  you  much 
more  than  a  rabbit-hearted  youth — yet  it  can  not  be.  He  be- 
longs to  Wcda.  "Wliat  we  take  from  men — animals,  gold,  silver, 
and  other  booty,  we  may  give  away,  but  not  what  belongs  to  the 
gods.    That  is  sacred,  and  therefore  I  can  not  do  what  you  ask." 

"  \Miat  you  dare  not  take,  I  dare.  Do  not  deny  me,  oh  king. 
Leave  it  to  Weda  to  punish  me." 

"  How  wise  you  are,"  laughed  tbe  king.  "  As  far  as  I  am 
concerned  you  may  take  what  you  like.  I  would  like  to  see 
whether  Weda  can  not  protect  his  own." 

But  at  these  words  the  crowd  began  to  mutter.  The  Alruna 
women  made  threatening  gestures,  and  the  priest  stretched  out 
his  wand  toward  the  king. 

"  You  have  no  right  over  the  sacrifices  of  the  gods,"  he  called 
out.  "  The  young  man  shall  hang  from  Weda's  tree.  If  the 
God  of  the  Christians  is  mighty  enough  to  save  his  life  after  that, 
llie  youth  may  go  to  Him  and  to  His  servant  Wulfram." 

At  these  words  the  Frisians  cheered, 

"  IMay  it  l)c  so,"  said  Eathodo  carelessly.  "  We  will  see  who 
is  mightiest,  Weda  or  Christ." 


CONRAD    VON   BOLANDEN.  165 

Then  at  a  sign  from  the  priest  the  youth  was  drawn  up  and 
swung  between  heaven  and  earth. 

At  that  Wulfram  knelt  down  with  arms  outstretched  and 
eyes  raised  heavenward.  The  Frisians  could  readily  see  that  such 
a  posture  was  ordinarily  impossible  for  any  length  of  time,  and 
yet  the  saint  kept  it  up  for  nearly  two  hours.  Without  the 
slightest  tremor  he  knelt  thus,  his  eyes  alone  showing  his  ecstasy. 

The  Frisians  watched  him  with  growing  astonishment.  Even 
the  Alruna  women  shook  their  heads  in  astonishment,  and  mut- 
tered imprecations  against  the  Christian  magician.  The  priest, 
however,  stood  with  folded  arms  and  a  triumphant  smile,  for  the 
youth  was  long  since  quiet  in  death. 

Eatbodo  watched  the  proceeding  in  the  attitude  of  the  scoffer 
and  doubter.  The  whole  appearance  of  the  saint  was  puzzling 
to  him,  and  the  suspicion  that  some  unknown  magic  might  pro- 
duce such  a  result  struggled  with  the  thought  that  Wulfram  was 
really  the  messenger  of  the  one  true  God. 

Suddenly  the  saint  arose  and  looked  toward  the  tree  from 
which  the  youth  was  hanging.  At  the  same  moment  the  rope 
broke  and  the  dead  body  fell  to  the  ground.  The  Frisians  mar- 
veled at  the  breaking  of  the  thick  rope,  but  they  marveled  even 
more  at  the  action  of  the  saint.  Moving,  with  an  inexpressible 
dignity,  he  went  over  to  the  corpse,  and  bending  down,  took  the 
dead  hand,  and  said  in  a  loud  voice : 

"  In  the  name  of  the  almighty  God  and  Our  Lord  Jesus  Christ, 
1  command  you  to  rise  and  live." 

At  once  the  dead  youth  arose. 

The  effect  of  the  miracle  was  indescribable.  At  first  the  Fris- 
ians stared  in  speechless  fear  at  the  scene.  Then  the  spell  broke 
and  a  loud  outcry  went  through  the  crowd,  followed  again  by 
silence. 

The  missionary  stood  in  the  center  of  the  sacred  circle  and 
called  out :  "  I  prayed  to  the  almighty  God  that  He  would  give  a 
sign  in  His  mercy  that  would  show  you  that  there  is  but  one  God, 
the  Maker  of  heaven  and  earth,  and  of  all  things,  at  whose  com- 
mand even  the  dead  come  to  life.    Jesus  Christ,  the  Saviour  of 


166  KING   RATBODO. 

the  world,  has  heard  my  prayers.  You  have  seen  the  miracle 
with  your  own  eyes.  Now  I  entreat  you  do  not  shut  your  cars 
to  the  voice  of  God,  which  calls  you  to  leave  the  darkness  and  de- 
ception of  your  gods  and  enter  into  the  kingdom  of  truth  and 
light.  Whoever  wants  to  live  according  to  the  law  of  the  true 
God,  let  him  follow  me." 

With  these  words  he  took  hold  of  Ovo\s  hand  and  turned  to  go 
away. 

"  The  God  of  the  Christians  is  the  true  God,"  rose  in  a  mighty 
cry  from  many  throats,  and  men  and  women  followed  the  bishop 
in  crowds.  Others  held  back  under  the  threats  of  the  priest  and 
the  Alruna  women,  and  a  wild  confusion  resulted.  Eatbodo,  how- 
ever, looked  on  like  a  man  who  is  well  amused,  and  his  chiefs 
followed  his  example. 

"  It  was  but  a  make-believe  scene  of  the  tricky  Frank,"  he 
said  to  his  companions,  "  for  a  dead  man  can  not  come  to  life." 

In  the  mean  time  the  saintly  bishop  was  hurrying  through  the 
forest  with  his  following.  Once  out  of  the  gloom  of  the  pagan 
grove,  in  the  free  sunshine  of  the  summer  day,  he  called  his 
flock  together  and  talked  to  the  wild  crowd  like  a  loving  father 
to  ignorant  children.  In  conclusion  he  invited  them  all  to  come 
to  him  on  the  next  day. 

And  the  feast  of  Weda  was  going  on  all  the  while.  The  sac- 
rificial beasts  were  killed  and  their  blood  sprinkled  over  the  altar, 
the  walls  of  the  temple,  the  statues,  and,  at  last,  the  waiting 
people.  The  Alruna  women  drank  of  the  blood  and  groped  in 
the  intestines  of  the  dead  animals.  They  were  trying  to  find 
Weda's  answer  to  the  king's  question. 

At  last,  covered  with  blood,  they  came  out  before  the  people 
and  raised  their  voices,  saying: 

"  Hear,  0  ye  Frisians,  the  will  of  your  god  Weda !  Do  not  go 
against  the  Franks  now.    Wait  until  Franks  fight  with  Franks !  " 

The  impression  made  upon  the  crowd  by  the  announcement 
of  the  will  of  the  god  was  not  pleasant.  There  were  mutterings 
and  discontented  faces  everywhere.  A  war-loving  people  does 
not  like  to  be  told  to  wait.    Nevertheless  they  bowed  to  the  oracle. 


CONRAD    VON    BOLANDEN.  167 

Against  the  wish  of  Weda,  and  without  his  assistance,  they  never 
ventured  a  fight. 

Eatbodo  liimself  was  pleased  with  the  oracle.  He  remembe-^ed 
the  bloody  defeats  not  long  past,  and  was  careful  of  meeting 
Pepin  and  his  Franks. 

"  It  is  a  wise  oracle/'  he  said  to  the  sulking  chieftains.  "  The 
Franks  have  ten  good  fighters  for  every  Frisian,  but  not  every 
Frisian  can  hold  out  against  ten  Franks,  So  it  is  best  to  wait 
until  they  fight  each  other." 

•     "  Since  when  does  Ratbodo  count  his  enemies  ?  "  asked  In- 
gomar. 

"  I  count  them  no  more  than  yon  do.  I  am  only  more  sen- 
sible, and  watch  for  the  circumstances  which  promise  success." 

"  I  think  just  as  the  king  does,"  said  Viderich,  which  showr 
that  even  the  Frisian  barbarian  had  his  court  flatterers. 

The  horns  were  blowing  again  announcing  now  that  the  sacred 
feast  was  ready.  The  king  and  the  chieftains  entered  the  temple, 
and  the  crowd  came  up  close.  The  hideous  goblets  of  Weda  were 
taken  from  the  shelves,  and,  standing  in  front  of  the  altar,  the 
priest  drank  first  in  honor  of  the  war  god.  Then  he  filled  an- 
other and  passed  it  to  the  king,  after  that  the  chieftains  dranlc, 
and  then  the  common  people.  Having  taken  the  sacred  drink  in 
the  temple  they  wandered  out  into  the  grove.  Here  the  kegs 
of  beer  and  mead  were  opened,  and  now  they  drank  not  out  of 
skulls,  but  from  mighty  horns.  The  sacrificial  meats  were  eaten, 
and  then  toward  evening  began  a  wild  music.  Thus  dancing 
and  drinking  in  wildest  abandon,  the  night  closed  in  on  the 
feast,  now  a  scene  of  utter  debauchery. 

III. 

St.  Wulfram  and  his  monks  had  much  work  for  a  time.  The 
Frisians  came  in  crowds  for  Christian  instructions  and  baptism. 
It  was  a  great  and  hard  task  to  teach  human  beings  in  the  lowest 
stage  of  development.  Moreover,  the  teachings  of  the  missionaries 
were  opposed  in  all  things  to  the  traditional  customs  of  the  people. 


168  KING   RATBODO. 

Many  wrongs,  such  as  slaver}'-  for  instance,  could  not  be  set  aside 
at  once.  Moreover,  if  the  people  were  to  be  made  peaceful  and 
weaned  from  their  wildncss,  they  had  to  be  taught  other  ways  of 
support  than  plundering  and  hunting.  So  the  Benedictines  taught 
the  converts  not  only  Christian  doctrine,  but  how  to  plow  and 
to  plant.  They  built  dunes  to  hold  out  the  devastating  sea,  and 
SL'nt  to  their  abbey  home  at  Fontinella  for  seeds  and  implements. 
In  a  few  years  the  face  of  Frisia  was  greatly  changed. 

Eatbodo  had  given  Wull'ram  land  and  a  dwelling  near  his 
own  residence.  In  this  way  he  could  best  keep  track  of  every- 
thing that  liappened  at  the  mission. 

The  king  himself  remained  obdurate  in  his  paganism.  Once 
he  said,  tauntingly,  to  the  entreating  Wulfram  that  if  the  Chris- 
tian God  would  work  a  miracle  for  him  especially  he  would  be 
converted.  Wulfram  reminded  him  of  the  miracles  he  had  seen 
and  had  not  been  converted.  Then  Eatbodo  said  that  if  the  table 
in  front  of  him  were  changed  into  gold  he  would  yield,  but 
Wulfram,  in  righteous  indignation,  told  him  how  childish  was 
such  a  request.  All  the  while  the  chieftains  were  urging  the 
king  to  send  away  the  Bishop.  But  he  laughed  at  them,  saying 
that  what  Wulfram  had  built  up  he  himself  would  destroy  in 
ton  days  when  the  time  came,  just  as  had  been  done  in  the  case  of 
Willibrord  and  Wilfred,  Egbert  and  Wigbert  and  so  on.  Even  the 
king's  little  son,  Clodio,  was  baptized  and  died  a  Christian,  but 
the  king  only  smiled.  His  day  was  coming,  he  held.  It  still 
suited  his  policy  to  be  kind  to  a  man  who  was  in  good  standing 
at  the  Xeustrian  court. 

Then  Wulfram  went  back  to  Fontinella  to  get  more  monks, 
laborers,  and  lay  brothers  for  his  work  in  Frisia.  The  con- 
verted Frisians  were  beginning  to  realize  the  blessings  of  regular 
and  well-ordered  work.  There  were  more  and  more  laborers  and 
fewer  sea-robbers  and  warriors.  Nevertheless,  the  great  mass 
of  the  Frisian  people  remained  obstinate,  following  the  example 
of  the  king  and  the  great  chiefs. 

Among  the  gods  whose  wrath  the  Frisians  most  feared  was 
the  god  of  the  sea.    The  lowness  of  the  land  made  frequent  in- 


eO¥RAD    VON   BOLANDEN.  I6f? 

undations  inevitable.  Besidies,  Frisians,  when  not  robbing,  w^cre 
fishing,  or  living  on  the  water  iia.  some  way.  Thus  they  were 
always  anxious  to  pacify  the  mighty  god'  of  the  floods. 

On  this  day,  too,  a  great  multitude,  together'  with  the  king' 
and  the  chieftains,  were  gathered  at  the  sea-coast,  waiting  to' 
soothe  the  water  deity  by  human  sacrifice.  The  lot  had  fallen 
on  two  little  boys  this  time,  the  only  children  of  a  widow.  At 
the  time  of  low  tide  the  little  ones  were  laid  on  a  projecting 
point  of  land  so  that  the  rising  waters  would  cover  them.  Their 
feet  were  tied  so  cunningly  that  the  childish  hands  could  not  undo 
the  knots.  Thus  they  sat  on  the  beach  waiting  the  waters  that 
were  to  be  their  death. 

Several  hundred  feet  back  the  crowds  were  gathered  to  watch 
the  unhappy  spectacle.  In  the  foreground  sat  a  young  woman, 
the  mother  of  the  children,  weeping  and  moaning  in  her  grief, 
without,  however,  waking  the  faintest  sympathy  in  the  hearts  of 
the  bystanders. 

The  waters  were  even  then  advancing  on  the  point  of  land, 
and  a  strong  wind  was  driving  up  the  flood  in  great  waves.  The 
little  ones  began  to  scream  in  terror  as  the  spray  struck  them, 
and  the  mother  sprang  to  her  feet.  If  she  had  not  been  held  fast 
she  would  have  flung  herself  into  the  water  with  her  children. 
Gradually  the  land  disappeared,  nothing  was  left  but  the  raised 
point  to  which  the  children  clung.  One  could  see  how  the  older 
boy  was  trying  to  hold  up  his  little  brother. 

"  King ! "  said  a  voice,  ringing  with  a  holy  anger,  "  why  this 
abomination  before  the  eyes  of  almighty  God  ?  " 

Eatbodo  started  and  the  chieftains  stared  in  silent  astonish- 
ment. 

"  We  are  offering  sacrifice  to  the  god  of  the  waters,"  said  the 
king,  after  a  moment.  "  Go  take  the  victims  away  from  him  if 
you  can ;  they  may  be  your  slaves  and  the  slaves  of  your  God  for 
the  rest  of  time,"  he  added  with  a  sneer. 

"  So  be  it,"  answered  Wulfram.  Turning,  he  made  the  sign 
of  the  cross  over  the  rising  tide  and  walked  out  as  if  on  solid 
land.     The  Christians  present  in  the  crowd  cried  aloud  for  joy. 


170  KING   RATBODO. 

but  the  pagans  stood  in  wonder  bordering  on  fear.  The  king 
himself  was  most  moved  by  the  miraculous  sight.  His  eyes  were 
fixed,  his  face  pale  as  death.  He  was  convinced  that  in  the  saint 
walking  thus  unharmed  over  the  waters  he  saw  an  unmistakable 
manifestation  of  the  power  of  the  Christian  God. 

*'  That  is  even  more  than  a  golden  table,"  he  whispered, 
tremblingly. 

Wulfram  lifted  the  children  out  of  the  water  and  carried 
them  to  the  land.  At  once  the  Frisians  crowded  about  him, 
asking  to  be  made  Christians.    Ratbodo  himself  said : 

"  It  is  but  right  that  a  man  should  keep  his  word,  I  said  to 
you  years  ago  that  if  your  God  would  make  a  golden  table  before 
my  eyes,  I  would  become  a  Christian.  But  He  did  more.  He 
made  a  solid  floor  of  the  moving  sea.  Come  to  me  every  day  and 
instruct  me." 

At  last  the  day  of  baptism  arrived.  The  Frisians  stood  round 
the  baptismal  font  in  a  wide  circle,  most  of  them  being  menials 
and  slaves.  Few  free  men  and  no  chiefs  seemed  to  desire  the 
grace  of  entering  the  kingdom  of  God.  King  Ratbodo,  in  his 
rich  clothing,  looked  contemptuously  at  the  tattered,  half-naked 
crowd.  Moreover  the  Christian  teaching  that  the  least  was  as 
much  before  God  as  the  greatest  was  not  to  his  liking.  All  his 
pride  rebelled  against  being  placed  on  a  level  with  these  crea- 
tures, who  could  be  bought  and  sold  like  cattle.  After  the  cus- 
tom of  the  time,  those  who  were  to  be  baptized  stepped  into  the 
water,  standing  thus,  while  the  priest  poured  water  over  their 
heads.  It  was  the  king's  turn  to  be  baptized.  He  had  placed 
one  foot  into  the  spring.    He  paused. 

"  One  more  question,  bishop,"  he  said.  "  I  ask  you  and  en- 
treat you,  in  the  name  of  God,  to  tell  me  whether  the  kings  and 
chiefs  of  the  Frisian  people  are  in  the  heavenly  place  which  you 
have  promised  me  if  I  believe  and  am  baptized,  or  whether  they 
are  in  the  darkness  of  everlasting  damnation." 

The  saint  looked  keenly  at  the  questioner.  He  saw  through 
the  pride  of  spirit,  which  at  the  last  moment  rebelled  against  its 
associations  and  sought  an  escape  from  what  seemed  humilia- 


CONRAD    VON   BOLANDEN.  171 

tion.  So  the  bishop  did  not  answer  coneiliatingly,  but  point- 
edly: 

"  Only  he  who  believes  and  is  baptized  may  enter  into  the 
glories  of  Christ." 

Eatbodo  drew  his  foot  out  of  the  water,  raised  himself  proudly, 
and  said : 

"  Then  I  will  rather  go  down  to  hell  with  my  ancestors,  the 
rulers  of  Frisia,  than  to  heaven  with  these  beggars." 

He  turned  and  walked  away  with  raised  head. 

After  this  nothing  but  the  much  desired  friendship  of  the 
western  Franks  kept  Eatbodo  from  persecuting  Wulfram. 

IV. 

At  last  the  opportunity  so  long  hoped  for  came. 

Pepin  of  Heristal,  called  Major  domus,  and,  in  fact,  ruler 
of  the  whole  great  Frankish  empire,  died  in  714.  He  left  a 
widow,  Plectrudis,  and  several  sons,  of  whom  Charles,  called 
Martel,  or  the  Hammer,  was  destined  to  play  a  great  role  in  the 
history  of  the  world.  Plectrudis  hated  Charles  because  he  was 
her  stepson,  and  moreover  the  favorite  of  the  eastern  Franks,  the 
Austrasians.  Pepin  was  barely  dead  when  she  had  Charles  im- 
prisoned. It  was  her  intention  to  make  Grimoald,  her  own  son, 
ruler.  Grimoald,  however,  who  had  taken  to  wife  Teutsinde,  the 
daughter  of  the  Frisian  Eatbodo,  was  assassinated  by  a  Frisian. 
Then  Plectrudis  centered  her  ambitious  plans  in  Theudebald, 
Grimoald's  son,  and,  of  course,  her  grandson.  She  herself  acted 
as  regent. 

But  the  ]N"eustrians,  or  western  Franks,  held  in  check  until 
now  by  Pepin's  strong  arm,  took  the  opportunity  to  rebel  against 
-the  dominion  of  the  eastern  Franks. 

Chilperic  II.,  King  of  Neustria,  made  a  treaty  with  the 
Frisian  king,  and  together  they  attacked  the  Austrasians  from 
opposite  sides  at  the  same  time.  Eatbodo  swept  over  the  land  like 
a  storm  wave.  He  first  retook  South  Frisia,  drove  out  the  Franks, 
burned  churches  and  convents,  banished  the  priests  and  restored 


173      ^  KING   RATBODO. 

the  old  gods.  Wliat  St.  Willibrord,  the  Archbishop  of  Utrecht, 
had  built  up  in  many  years,  was  destroyed  in  a  few  days.  Drunken 
with  victory,  triumphant  over  the  reconquest  of  South  Frisia, 
Katbodo  invaded  Austrasia,  carrying  fire  and  rapine  and  ruin 
wherever  he  went.  Thus  he  finally  reached  Cologne,  where  he 
joined  the  forces  of  the  Xeustrians. 

The  towers  and  walls  of  Cologne  stopped  him  here,  and  he 
and  his  hordes  comprehended  for  the  first  time  the  value  of  cities 
and  fast  places. 

Plectrudis  was  in  Cologne  with  her  grandchildren  and  her 
treasures.  She  tried  to  buy  off  the  Frisians  and  to  induce  them 
to  return  home  by  offering  them  great  sums  of  money,  Eatbodo 
was  well  satisfied  to  accept  her  offers.  He  had  won  back  South 
Frisia  and  gratified  for  the  time  the  instincts  of  greed  and  battle 
in  his  people. 

The  Xeustrians  made  no  objection  to  his  departure.  They, 
too,  were  homeward  bent,  for  in  the  distance  new  storm  clouds 
were  arising.  Charles  Martel  had  escaped  from  his  jailers  and 
was  gathering  the  eastern  Franks  for  the  fight. 

Eatbodo  did  not  get  very  far.  At  Stablo  Charles  Martel  over- 
took him  and  thoroughly  "  hammered  "  him.  Once  more  the  Fri- 
sian king  promised  to  become  a  peaceable  Christian  and  to  put 
nothing  in  the  way  of  the  missionaries  in  North  Frisia.  He  did  not 
keep  the  first  part  of  the  promise  this  time  either,  although  he 
did  the  second.  Moreover,  the  king  was  melancholy  since  his 
last  defeat.  Sometimes  he  was  tired  of  life.  His  bravest  chiefs 
had  fallen  in  the  fight  Avith  Martel.  Every  year  there  were  fewer 
sea-robbers  and  more  laborers.  Weda  himself  had  been  false  to 
his  promise  of  help  in  the  expedition  against  Austrasia.  In  addi- 
tion, the  king  was  tortured  by  a  certain  fear  of  hell.  He  did  not 
like  the  thought  of  an  everlasting  thirst,  for  Eatbodo  could  not 
stand  thirst,  and  emptied  many  mighty  horns  every  day  with  his 
boon  companions  trying  to  keep  from  getting  thirsty.  And  had 
not  Wulfram  said  that  the  thirst  of  hell  was  much  greater  than 
the  thirst  of  this  life  ? 

Then,  at  last,  the  Frisian  l)arl)arian  hatched  out  a  compro- 


CONRAD    VON    BOLANDEN.  173 

mise  with  his  conscience  and  his  desires.  He  would  be  baptized 
and  believe  everything  that  was  asked  of  him,  but  he  would  cling 
to  his  old  habits  here,  and  if  possible  get  the  best  of  things  on  the 
other  side  too.  On  this  basis  he  asked  the  holy  bishop,  Wulfram, 
to  baptize  him. 

"  It  is  impossible,  gracious  king/'  said  the  saint.  "  You 
would  like  to  believe  as  a  Christian,  but  live  as  a  pagan,  and  that 
is  not  to  be  done.  We  are  not  saved  by  faith  alone,  but  by  faith 
and  works.  Jesus  Christ  says :  '  Wilt  thou  enter  into  life,  keep 
My  commandments.'  If  you  wish  to  escape  eternal  damnation, 
you  must  become  a  Christian  in  faith  and  in  works." 

Eatbodo  did  not  like  the  answer.  He  thought  Wulfram  a 
hard  and  obstinate  man.  Archbishop  Willibrord,  he  believed, 
would  be  more  lenient.  So  he  sent  his  confidant,  Viderich,  to 
Utrecht,  where  Charles  Martel  had  restored  the  saintly  bishop 
to  his  see. 

Willibrord  received  the  royal  messenger  most  kindly. 

"  But  why,"  he  asked,  "  if  your  king  will  not  hearken  to  the 
voice  of  my  brother  in  the  holy  office,  should  he  listen  to  me  ?  " 

"  But  he  will,"  Viderich  assured  him.  "  You  are  his  favorite, 
and  he  will  let  himself  be  baptized  by  you." 

The  almost  eighty-year-old  Willibrord  shook  his  bowed  head 
thoughtfully. 

"  I  am  afraid  it  is  too  late.  I  have  a  feeling  that  the  king 
will  not  be  living  when  we  get  there." 

"  That  feeling  does  not  mean  an}i;hing,"  Viderich  answered. 
"  The  king  is  as  chipper  as  a  fish  in  the  water.  Therefore  come, 
holy  man,  and  hasten  to  do  as  the  king  wishes." 

The  weak  old  bishop  started  out,  but  after  the  first  day's 
journey,  a  messenger  met  them  with  the  announcement  that  Eat- 
bodo had  died  without  baptism. 

"  What  a  terrible  lot,"  said  the  Archbishop  sadly.  "  How 
many  times  God's  grace  was  manifested  to  him  by  the  preachings 
of  the  missionaries,  by  miracles,  and  signs.  How  long-suffering 
was  the  mercy  of  God,  and  yet  over  and  over  again  he  refused 
to  yield  to  its  inspirations." 


174  KING   RATBODO. 

Bemoaning  thus  the  misfortune  of  Ratbodo,  Willibrord  re- 
turned to  Utrecht. 

Wulfram  left  Frisia  the  next  year,  A.  D.  720,  unable  to  stand 
the  hardships  of  missionary  life  any  longer  on  account  of  his  ad- 
vancing age.  He  went  to  the  Abbey  of  Fontinella,  where  he 
lived  thereafter  as  a  simple  monk  and  died  in  a  few  years.  But 
what  he  had  wrought  in  the  land  of  the  Frisians  during  twenty 
years  of  hardship  did  not  perish,  for  he  was  followed  almost  at 
once  by  the  great  apostle  of  the  Germans — St,  Boniface. 


ANTONIE    HAUPT. 


Antonie  Haupt  is  the  pen-name  of  Victorine  Endler,  who  was 
born  in  Treves,  on  January  17,  1853.  the  oldest  daughter  of  a 
well-knov/n  physician,  Dr.  Bleser,  and  his  wife  Anna,  whose  maiden 
name  was  Jacoby.  Dr.  Bleser  was  noted  as  a  man  of  broad  culture 
in  many  directions,  and  directed  the  studies  of  his  children 
himself.  When  he  died  suddenly,  in  1878,  his  daughters,  Victorine 
and  Maria,  began  to  write,  primarily  as  a  relief  from  the  profound 
sorrow  and   loneliness  which   the   death  of  such  a  father  naturally 


brought  into  their  lives  and  hearts.  Maria  has  become  well 
known  and  liked  under  the  name  of  Alinda  Jacoby.  Victorine. 
following  the  trend  of  her  father's  teachings,  turned  especially  to 
historical  fiction,  finding  her  material  chiefly  in  the  traditions  of 
her  picturesque  native  city.  The  chronicles  of  the  ancient  city 
of  Treves  and  of  the  beautiful  Moselle  Valley  have  furnished  her 
with  the  motives  of  many  of  her  stories.  Sometimes  she  chooses 
the  romantic  past  of  her  second  home  in  Hildesheim,  where  she 
has  lived  since  1887,  when  she  was  married  to  Bernard  Endler, 
a  merchant  of  Hanover.  On  the  same  day,  May  26,  her  sister, 
Maria,  married  Herr  Krug,  a  manufacturer  of  Mayence.  Even 
though  housewives  and  mothers,  it  has  been  vouchsafed  to  both  of 
the  sisters  to  continue  their  literary  activities. 

The  following  of  Antonie  Haupt's  novels  have  appeared  in  book 
form:  "  Ein  Adlicher  Spross,"  "Im  Anker,"  "  Ein  Moseliied," 
"Die  letzte  Grafin  von  Manderscheid,"  "  Haideroslein,"  "Das 
Geheimniss  des  Waldes  von  St.  Arnual,"  "Die  Tochter  des 
Alemannenkonigs,"  "  Der  V/eg  zum  Gliick,"  "  Das  Goldene  Dich 
zu  Hildesheim,"  "  Hexe  und  Jesuit,"  "Der  Heilige  Rock."  and 
"  Bernward  von  Hildesheim."  Her  shorter  stories  and  sketches 
have  appeared  in  many  periodicals.  Her  style  is  easy  and 
piquant  and,  in  the  presentation  of  the  peculiarities  and  customs 
of  long  past  days,  she  shows  a  marvelous  wealth  of  detail  that 
gives  an  air  of  vivid  realism  to  her  writings. 


IRicbolas  Cusanus* 

BY   ANTONIE   HAUPT. 
I. 

"  Well,  Catherine !  Now  that  our  house  is  all  locked  up 
from  garret  to  cellar,  we  can  go  to  the  boat  with  easy  minds  and 
start  for  the  Netherlands." 

Thus  spoke  the  boatman  and  shipper,  Nicholas  Krebs  of  Kues 
on  the  Moselle,  as  he  turned  the  key  to  his  house  door  twice. 
Then  he  drew  two  more  bolts  and  fastened  them  with  padlocks, 
and  he  and  his  good  wife  Catherine,  and  their  two  little  daugh- 
ters, Clara  and  Margaret,  started  toward  the  river.  The  only 
son,  Claus,  was  waiting  for  them  down  on  the  boat.  His  father 
had  sent  him  on  ahead  of  the  rest  to  scour  and  clean  the  deck 
thoroughly  before  the  journey. 

It  was  still  very  early  in  the  morning.  Through  the  rising 
mists  one  could  faintly  see  the  outlines  of  the  boat  piled  high 
with  oak  bark  from  the  surrounding  hills.  The  boatman  Krebs 
meant  to  sell  it  to  rich  tanners  on  the  way  down,  and  bring  back 
coal  from  the  Low  Countries  when  returning.  He  had 
been  doing  this  many  a  long  year  and  had,  indeed,  made  con- 
siderable money  at  it. 

He  would  have  been  well  pleased  with  his  good  trade  as  a 
boatman  and  shipper,  and  with  his  lit'tle  family,  if  only  his  son 
Claus  had  shown  any  aptitude  for  following  in  his  father's  ways 
and  becoming  a  boatman  and  shipper  also.  Blows  and  scoldings 
were  often  the  lot  of  the  boy,  but  they  did  no  good. 

"  Oh,  father,"  his  wife  would  plead  sometimes,  "  do  not 
be  so  hard  on  the  boy.  He  has  a  different  spirit  from  ours  and 
we  can  not  hold  him  down." 

177 


178  NICHOLAS  CVSANUS. 

But  Krebs  would  fly  into  a  fury  at  this.  "  The  boy  must 
obey  me,  or  I'll  beat  him  until  he  does.  When  I  think  he  has 
mended  the  sails,  I  find  him  buried  in  a  piece  of  old  parchment, 
trying  to  make  out  what  the  curls  and  scratches  on  it  mean. 
When  I  think  that  he  has  rolled  up  the  ropes  1  find  him  in  a 
corner  with  some  old  chronicle,  doing  nothing.  Things  must 
change,  or  the  cup  of  my  endurance  will  run  over." 

And  that  same  thing  happened  that  very  morning,  on  the 
first  day  of  the  month  of  jo}'.  May,  1413.  For  the  deck  was  any- 
thing but  clean,  and  the  negligent  one  was  not  to  be  found  any- 
M'here.  At  last  Nicholas  discovered  him  crouched  in  a  corner  of 
the  cabin,  and  so  absorbed  in  the  parchment  pages  before  him 
that  he  did  not  hear  his  father's  coming.  Suddenly  blows  fell 
on  his  knowledge-loving  head  like  hail  on  a  summer  field. 

"  Good-for-nothing,  that  is  the  way  you  do  your  duty !"  The 
angry  father  wrenched  the  pigskin  volume  out  of  his  hand  and 
threw  it  onto  the  shore. 

"  But  father,  father,"  entreated  the  boy,  "  the  chronicle  does 
not  belong  to  me.  I  must  give  it  back  to  the  young  Counts  of 
Manderscheid.  They  were  in  Kues  not  long  ago  with  their  tutor 
and  I  showed  them  the  church." 

A  terrible  fury  seized  the  man.  "  If  you  think  more  of 
your  chronicle  than  you  do  of  your  father,  you  should  follow  it 
and  not  me.  I  am  not  your  father — I  disown  you."  Pie  seized 
the  poor  little  fellow  and  flung  him  ashore,  too,  where  he  lay, 
senseless. 

Mistress  Catherine  came  wringing  her  hands  and  weeping. 

"  Father,  what  have  you  done  ?  Have  pity  on  your  only 
son." 

"Women's  tears  disgust  me,"  he  said,  and  then  added  sar- 
castically, "  Wipe  your  eyes  in  peace.  The  likes  of  him  is  not  so 
easily  killed.     You  will  see  your  darling  Claus  again." 

Tiittle  did  he  dream  how  she  would  see  her  son  again!  And 
leaving  him  there,  Nicliolas  Krebs  sailed  down  the  Moselle. 

When  the  poor  little  boy  Krebs  had  thrown  ashore  came  back 
to  his  senses,  the  precious  chronicle  was  the  very  first  thing  he 


ANTONIE  HAUPT.  179 

looked  for.  He  found  it,  a  little  spattered  with  mud,  to  be  sure, 
but  otherwise  unspoiled.  Then,  feeling  deeply  guilty  on  account 
of  his  disobedience,  and  crying  bitterly,  he  went  to  the  house  of 
his  father's  sister  and  asked  her  to  take  him  in.  He  did  not 
know  any  other  place  to  go  to.  , 

But  she  told  him  to  go  on. 

"  Away  with  you,"  she  said,  "  you  lazy  thief  of  time !  Your 
father  was  right  to  put  you  out.  What  shall  I  do  with  you  ?  Go 
try  for  yourself  now  and  see  what  you  can  earn." 

She  cut  a  great  slice  from  a  loaf  of  bread  of  her  own  baking 
and  threw  it  to  him.  "  There  is  something  for  you  on  your 
way." 

Claus  took  the  bread  humbly,  put  it  in  his  pocket  and  said : 

"  I  thank  you,  aunt." 

And  then  he  went  on. 

Mistress  Annemarie  looked  after  him  as  he  walked  along,  so 
dejected  and  miserable. 

"  It  is  better  so.  The  boy  must  learn  the  hardness  of  life 
and  be  made  to  understand  that  reading  books  and  doing  nothing 
bring  no  profit  to  any  one."  Thus  she  tried  to  excuse  herself  for 
her  treatment  of  him. 

Above  Kues,  on  the  banks  of  the  Moselle,  there  was  a  little 
wayside  shrine,  dedicated  to  St.  Nicholas,  the  patron  of  sailors 
and  boatmen.  The  holy  bishop  stood  there,  life  size,  in  his 
pontifical  robes,  holding  a  basket  full  of  children,  whom,  ac- 
cording to  the  tradition,  he  is  said  to  have  brought  back  to  life 
after  they  were  dead. 

Here  the  outcast  child  stopped  and  knelt  down.  He  lifted  up 
his  great  dark  eyes  and  prayed  trustingly. 

"  0,  my  dear  patron,  pray  for  me  to  the  good  Lord  that  He 
may  forgive  my  sin  against  my  father.  Be  my  helper  and  pro- 
tector now,  for  my  own  father  has  cast  me  off,  as  I  deserved.  You 
were  a  great  friend  of  the  children — help  me,  too.  I  trust  in  your 
guidance.  Help  me  to  find  a  place  where  I  may  work  and  become 
a  useful  man.  0,  I  will  do  any  kind  of  work  without  grumbling. 
Prompt  me  that  I  may  know  whither  I  should  turn."  ^ 


180  NICHOLAS  CUSANU8. 

As  he  knelt  there  praying  with  clasped  hands,  something  fell 
noisily  to  the  ground.     It  was  the  chronicle. 

"  Oh,  yes,  my  holy  patron,"  said  the  boy.  "  You  remind  me 
that  before  I  go  out  into  the  wide  world  I  must  give  this  back  to 
its  owners.  The  young  counts  were  going  to  call  for  it  them- 
selves at  my  home.  But  they  can  not  do  so  now,  for  1  no  longer 
have  a  home." 

He  fervently  said  another  "  Our  Father."     Then  he  rose. 

"  Now  for  Manderscheid,"  he  whispered. 

He  stepped  out  into  the  soft  spring  air  and  the  warm  sunshine. 
The  waves  of  the  Moselle  murmured  softly,  and  boats  glided  over 
the  clear  waters.  Over  the  high  hills  across  from  him  hung  a 
bluish  mist.  It  was  a  joyous  May  day.  But  Glaus  saw  nothing. 
He  was  thinking:    "  How  can  I  get  to  Manderscheid?  " 

Then  the  little  fellow  remembered  that  he  heard  some  one 
say  casually  that  the  castle  of  the  Manderscheids  rose  above 
the  Licser  brook.  "  Then  I  will  go  to  the  brook  and  if  I  follow 
it,  in  time  I  must  come  to  the  castle." 

He  started  on,  up  the  Moselle,  and  soon  found  the  mouth  of 
the  Lieser.  For  fear  of  losing  the  w^ay  he  clung  to  the  water, 
even  when  the  path  seemed  to  follow  shorter  paths  inland. 
"  If  I  stick  to  the  water  I  can  not  get  lost,"  he  told  himself. 

He  quenched  his  thirst  with  the  clear  water  of  the  brook,  and 
when  he  was  hungry  ate  of  tlio  bread  his  aunt  had  given  him.  He 
could  not  have  brought  himself  to  beg  for  anything  in  the 
little  places  he  passed  as  he  traveled  along.  But  when  night 
came  he  was  frightened.  Fortunately  he  saw  a  shepherd  bringing 
his  sheep  into  the  pen.     Glaus  went  up  to  him  and  asked: 

"  Is  it  far  to  the  castle  of  Manderscheid  ?  " 

The  old  herder,  who  was  walking  along  slowly  knitting  at  a 
stocking,  pushed  his  weather-worn  shepherd's  hat  on  one  side  of 
his  head,  and  looked  at  the  strange  boy  in  astonishment. 

"  Yes,  lad,"  he  said  then.  "  If  that  is  where  you  want  to 
go,  it  will  take  you  four  hours  longer.  It  would  be  better  for  you 
to  look  for  shelter  in  the  next  village,  and  stay  the  night,  and  go 
on  your  journey  to-morrow," 


AN  TON  IE  HAUPT.  181 

**But  I  can't  do  that.  I  haven't  any  money/'  said  Claus, 
barely  able  to  keep  his  tears  back.  The  old  man  looked  at  the 
pretty  boy  with  a  kindly  scrutiny. 

"  You  do  not  look  like  the  child  of  poor  people.  Did  you  run 
away  from  your  parents?'' 

"  Oh,  no,  no,"  he  said,  "  My  father  cast  me  off  because  I  v/as 
disobedient." 

"  So,  a  little  good-for-nothing  ?    How  did  that  happen  ?  " 

"  Oh,  good  man,  I  can  not  tell  you  now,  I  am  so  tired." 

And  truly  the  poor  fellow  looked  as  if  he  would  sink  down. 

"  I  am  sorry  for  you,  child,"  said  the  old  man.  "  Come 
with  me.  I  will  give  you  shelter  in  my  hut  for  the  night.  I 
have  two  out  here.  My  little  grandson,  about  as  big  as  you,  often 
comes  and  stays  out  in  the  fields  with  me  all  night." 

Perhaps  the  old  man  was  thinking  of  his  grandson  even 
then.  When  they  came  to  the  hut  he  pointed  to  the  trunk  of  a 
tree,  and  told  the  boy  to  sit  down.  Then  he  brought  him  bread 
and  a  bowl  of  warm  goat's  milk, 

Claus  took  what  was  offered  him  thankfully  and  did  not  need 
to  be  urged  to  eat.  How  often  he  had  wished  he  might  spend  a 
night  out  in  the  fields  with  the  shepherd  lads,  and  yet,  now  that 
he  had  his  wish,  his  heart  was  very  heavy.  But  he  slept  very 
well  and  woke  up  the  next  morning  fresh  and  hopeful.  The 
larks  were  singing  and  the  sheep  crowding  toward  the  gates. 
The  little  grandson  came  soon  and  brought  a  nourishing  oatmeal 
soup  and  bread  and  butter.  The  old  man  loyally  shared  this 
tempting  breakfast  with  the  little  stranger. 

"  jSTow  go,"  he  said  to  the  boy,  "  in  God's  name.  Trust  in 
Him  who  sends  us  rain  and  sunshine.  You  have  told  me  your 
story,  and  I  know  that  you  are  not  a  bad  boy.  Do  not  cry  any 
more.  Sadness  does  not  mend  anything.  You,  Peter,  show 
Claus  the  way  across  the  rocks.     Now  go  on  together." 

The  boys  started  off.  Peter  knew  the  paths  that  led  between 
the  steep,  moss-grown  rocks.  After  a  little  while  they  came  to  a 
plateau.  In  the  distance,  higher  bill  tops  rose  from  it.  Peter 
pointed  to  the  highest  one  of  them  all: 


182  NICHOLAS  CUSAXUS. 

"  See,  that  is  the  Mosenberg.  A  long  time  ago  he  threw  out 
streams  of  liro.  Keep  to  the  left  and  you  will  get  to  Mander- 
scheid  without  taking  the  hard  road  along  the  brook." 

Claus  thanked  his  little  guide  and  went  on  merrily.  It  was 
not  yet  noon  when  he  reached  the  village,  lying  up  high  in  the 
hills,  and  looked  across  the  deep  ravine  through  which  the  Lieser 
poured  in  torrents.  Two  steep  crags  rose  out  of  the  ravine  and 
above  them,  the  towers  of  the  castle.  At  the  welcome  sight  the 
boy  began  to  run.  In  a  few  minutes  he  was  at  the  castle  gate. 
The  drawbridge  was  let  down  and  the  gate  was  open.  It  was  a 
time  of  peace.     So  he  entered  unhindered  into  the  court. 

Here — what  delight ! — his  young  friends,  the  sons  of  the 
Count,  were  playing  games  on  the  green  grass.  Silent  and  shy, 
Claus  remained  in  the  arch  of  the  gate  and  watched  the  play. 

Diedrich,  the  oldest,  and  the  heir,  saw  him  first  and  called  out 
delightedly : 

"  Claus,  Claus,  our  little  scholar  from  Kues !  " 

William,  the  wildest  of  the  lot,  ran  toward  Claus  and  gave 
him  such  a  hug  that  the  slight  little  fellow  was  almost  crushed. 

Then  Ulric,  a  serious,  pleasant  boy  came  forward : 

"  Let  Claus  alone.  He  is  my  friend.  He  is  coming  to  see  me. 
and  to  return  my  chronicle.      Isn't  it  so  ?  " 

Claus  could  only  nod  his  head. 

Ulric  went  on :     "  You  are  heartily  welcome  to  our  home." 

"  Yes,"  added  Diedrich.  "  You  shall  be  shown  every  courtesy 
as  our  guest." 

But  as  Claus  was  still  silent,  while  the  tears  rolled  down 
his  cheeks,  the  boys  were  alarmed,  and  went  after  their  tutor, 
the  wise  doctor  of  theology,  Conradus. 

The  reverend  gentleman  who  now  came  along  in  his  plain, 
black  soutane  was  soldier,  priest  and  scholar.  He  had  accom- 
panied the  Count  to  the  Holy  Land  and  now  he  was  chaplain  and 
tutor  at  the  castle.    He  took  the  boy's  hand  and  said  kindly: 

"  Tell  me  your  trouble,  dear  child.     Maybe  T  can  help  you." 

Then  Claus'  tongue  was  loosened,  and  he  told  his  tale  in  a  few, 
quick  words. 


ANTON  IE  HAUPT.  183 

A  look  of  great  sympathy  came  into  the  clergyman's  eyes. 

"  Do  not  worry,  my  child,"  he  said.  "  God  is  pleased  with 
your  contrition.  He  will  not  forsake  you.  I  will  put  in  a  good 
word  for  you  at  once  with  the  Count,  and  ask  him  to  give  you 
some  work.     Just  wait  here."     Then  he  went  into  the  castle. 

Claus  began  to  feel  safe  already. 

The  Count's  sons  crowded  around  him,  and  stroked  his  hands 
sympathetically. 

"  Poor  Claus  !  You  will  have  to  come  and  stay  with  us  all  the 
time."  At  once  they  began  to  make  plans  for  their  future  amuse- 
ments. 

Claus'  heart  was  beating  in  expectation,  but  he  had  begun  to 
smile  again  when  Dr.  Conradus  returned  and  said  to  him: 

"  The  Count  would  like  to  see  you.     Come  with  me." 

In  a  narrow,  high-arched  room,  the  library  of  the  castle. 
Count  Diedrich  I.,  of  Manderscheid,  sat  at  a  writing-table.  Be- 
fore him  were  rolls  of  parchment  and  bundles  of  deeds  and 
manuscripts.  The  shelves  about  him  were  filled  with  documents, 
treating  of  the  rights  and  duties  of  subjects  and  rulers,  and 
agreements  with  the  lords  of  adjoining  estates.  Not  the  least  in 
it  all  were  the  family  documents  and  chronicles. 

The  chief  treasure,  in  the  eyes  of  the  Count,  was  a  copy  of  the 
Holy  Scriptures,  which  he  had,  in  part,  transcribed  himself  and 
illuminated  with  beautiful  designs  and  initial  letters.  There 
were  also  the  songs  of  the  troubadours  and  the  minne-singers, 
which  he  had  gathered  during  the  Crusades,  transcribed  and 
illuminated  also  by  his  own  labor  and  skill. 

Count  Diedrich  was  of  a  different  temper  from  most  of  the 
knights  of  his  time  and  vicinity.  He  was  a  scholar.  His  en- 
thusiasm for  the  Holy  Land  had  inspired  him  at  one  time  to 
make  a  pilgrimage  to  Jerusalem  accompanied  by  his  wife  Eliza- 
beth. There  he  fought  against  the  Saracens  for  the  holy  places, 
and  was  made  a  knight  by  a  German  Prince  in  the  year  1390. 
Plis  armor,  and  that  of  his  wife,  still  adorn  the  halls  of  his  de- 
scendants and  show  many  a  mark  of  Saracen  blows. 

The  Count  himself  was  large  and  powerful,  wdth  clear  cut 


184  NICHOLAS  CUSANU8. 

features  and  deep  blue  eyes,  thai  had  something  of  the  look  of 
the  dreamer  and  the  mystic.  This  was  the  man  whom  Clans 
approached  now  with  fear  and  trembling. 

**  You  are  welcome,  little  Cusanus.  My  good  Dr.  Conradus 
has  spoken  so  well  of  you  that  1  am  disposed  to  keep  you  here 
and  give  you  some  easy  work.  You  are  to  herd  the  cows  and 
horses  every  afternoon,  but  never  to  take  a  book  along  with  you 
while  you  are  herding.     Will  you  do  that  ?  " 

"  0,  I  shall  be  so  glad  to  do  everything  you  tell  me,  gracious 
sir,"  Clans  answered  humbly. 

A  smile  hovered  about  the  Count's  lips. 

"  Well,  then,  I  command  you  strictly,  and  I  must  not  be  dis- 
obeyed. Every  morning,  between  the  time  of  the  morning  soup 
and  the  noon-day  meal,  you  are  to  share  my  sons'  instructions  and 
try  to  learn  something." 

Clans  stood  speechless  and  immovable  at  these  words.  Then 
suddenly  a  great  happiness  overcame  him,  and  forgetting  his 
shyness  he  fell  on  his  knees  before  the  Count  and  kissed  his 
hands. 

"  How  can  I  thank  you,  sir  ?  "  he  stammered. 

"  By  your  actions,"  the  Count  answered  quietly.  "  Go  now 
to  my  sons.  To-day  you  may  share  their  play.  But  first  go  to 
the  kitchen  and  let  them  give  you  something  to  eat — you  must 
be  hungry." 

The  life  that  began  now  was  such  as  Claus  had  never  dared 
to  hope  for.  Breathlessly,  with  infinite  desire  for  Icnowledge,  he 
followed  the  teachings  of  the  learned  Dr.  Conradus.  His  en- 
thusiasm and  eagerness  carried  the  Count's  sons  with  him,  so  that 
Count  Diedrich  blessed  the  day  when  he  had  taken  in  the  little 
outcast. 

When  Claus  was  herding  the  cattle  and  horses  in  the  after- 
noon, the  young  counts  and  their  tutor  generally  came  down  to 
the  pasture.  And  a  jolly  herding  it  was  then.  The  herders  and 
the  colts  leaped  and  played,  trying  to  outdo  each  other.  The  tutor 
often  had  hard  work  to  bring  his  pupils  home  in  the  evening. 

Thus  several  years  passed. 


ANTONIE  HAUPT.  185 

Then  Dr.  Conradus  weut  to  the  Count  one  day  and  said : 

"  My  task  is  ended.  I  can  do  no  more  for  your  sons,  nor  for 
the  youth  Chius  of  Kues.  It  might  be  well  to  send  your  sons 
now  to  the  great  college  at  Deventer,  and,  if  you  want  to  do  a 
good  deed,  send  Claus  of  Kues  along  with  them.  If  this  youth 
is  permitted  to  continue  his  studies,  I  promise  you  that  he  will 
astonish  the  world  some  day  and  be  a  light  of  learning." 

Count  Diedrich  nodded: 

"  I  have  thought  that  same  thing.  Claus  shall  go  to  Deventer 
also." 

And  thus  it  happened  that  Claus,  or  rather  Nicholas,  for  he 
had  grown  to  be  a  handsome  young  man  by  this  time,  and  his 
three  young  friends,  the  Counts  of  Manderscheid,  went  to  that 
famous  school  of  the  Netherlands,  which  the  "  Brethren  of  the 
Life  in  Common  "  conducted  at  Deventer. 

After  completing  his  studies  in  this  model  school,  he  was 
sent  to  the  University  of  Padua  by  his  generous  patron,  where 
he  was  made  a  Doctor  of  Law  and  a  Doctor  of  Divinity,  and 
then  took  Holy  Orders,  as  he  felt  that  he  had  a  vocation  for  the 
priestly  life. 

11. 

Soft  and  golden  the  autumn  sun  fell  into  the  valley  of  the 
Moselle  in  the  year  1451.  It  flooded  the  steep  hills,  with  their 
vinegrown  terraces,  and  the  wide  stretches  of  oak  forests,  all 
brilliant  with  many  hues. 

Everything  was  touched  with  the  glory  of  color,  and  above  all 
the  riot  of  tints  arched  the  faintly  blue  sky.  The  waves  of  the 
Moselle  glittered  and  glistened,  and  boats  and  skiffs  enlivened 
the  river.  From  the  Electors  castle,  above  the  little  town  of 
Bernkastel,  the  yellow  and  blue  flag  of  the  electorate  fluttered  in 
the  breeze,  and  sent  greetings  across  the  river  to  Kues. 

What  unusual  activity  bestirred  the  beautiful  valley  of  the 
Moselle?  From  Bernkastel  to  Kues  boats  were  crossing  con- 
tinually, filled  with  people  in  holiday  attire.     From  the  hills 


186  NICHOLAS  CUSANUS. 

people  came  down  in  long  streams.  The  banks  of  the  river  were 
alive  with  expectant  groups. 

A  message  of  joy  had  reached  Kues :  The  noblest  son  of  the 
valley,  the  intellectual  giant  and  the  prince  of  the  Church,  the 
famous  Cardinal  Cusanus,  is  coming  to  visit  his  native  town. 
The  fame  of  his  greatness  has  long  since  reached  even  this  quiet 
corner  of  the  Moselle  Valley.  He,  who  has  traveled  through 
most  of  the  civilized  world,  is  passing  from  place  to  place,  since 
the  first  of  the  year,  as  Papal  Legate  in  the  German  countries, 
announcing  the  jubilee  of  Nicholas  Y.,  and  working  toward  the 
spiritual  regeneration  of  convents  and  clergy.  Ilis  success  is 
wonderful.  A  fresh  breath  of  inspiration  and  of  regeneration  is 
coming  to  the  Church  through  Cusanus. 

The  Cardinal  Nicholas  Krebs  of  Kues  was  the  son  of  that 
sailor  who  once  threw  his  too  studious  boy  off  his  boat  and  left 
him  to  his  fate  as  a  good-for-nothing. 

On  the  spot  where  the  boy  struck  the  land  there  was  now  a 
stately  group  of  buildings  with  a  Gothic  church.  It  was  not  yet 
completed  and  was  destined  to  be  a  hospital  for  old  and  crippled 
people.  The  founder  of  the  place  was  none  other  than  Cardinal 
Nicholas  Cusanus. 

His  father  had  long  since  giving  up  shipping  and  was  now 
living  as  a  well-to-do  burgher  in  the  old  stone  house  on  the  banks 
of  the  Moselle.  His  housewife,  Mistress  Catherine,  was  still 
alive.     But  the  old  people  were  very  lonesome. 

Since  the  memorable  day  when  he  cast  him  off,  Krebs  had  not 
seen  his  son.  His  two  daughters,  Margaret  and  Clara,  were  not 
at  home  either.  The  Cardinal  took  care  that  his  sisters  were 
educated  in  the  fine  female  school  he  founded.  Thus  it  hap- 
pened that  distinguished  men  were  suitors  for  the  hands  of  the 
Cardinal's  handsome  sisters.  Clara  was  married  to  the  praetor, 
or  mayor,  of  Treves,  Paul  von  Brysich.  Margaret  had  married 
the  Court  Bailiff  Matthias  at  Bernkastel.  Both  couples  had 
hastened  to  Kues  and  were  standing  behind  their  parents  in  the 
pushing,  eager  crowd.  As  the  son  of  a  boatman,  the  famouS; 
simple-hearted  man  wanted  to  come  to  his  old  home  on  a  boat. 


AN  TON  IE  HAVPT.  187 

The  news  that  the  Papal  Legate  would  come  from  Treves  to 
Kues  on  the  seventh  day  of  the  first  autumn  month  brought 
Paul  von  Brysich  himself  to  Kues,  with  the  news  of  the  Cardinal's 
coming.  And  then  Kues  and  the  neighborhood  began  to  pre- 
pare for  a  worthy  reception.  A  landing  was  hastily  constructed 
to  reach  to  the  ship.  Over  it  a  triumphal  arch  was  built,  deco- 
rated with  pine  trees  and  bright  with  flags  and  streamers.  The 
houses  were  hung  with  garlands  and  flags.  Flowers  and  carpets 
covered  the  streets  from  the  landing-place  to  the  church. 

Under  the  triumphal  arch,  however,  stood  the  venerable  priest 
of  Kues  with  the  abbot  of  Sponheim  and  of  Springirsbach  in 
festival  robes  and  surrounded  by  their  assistants,  together  with 
the  clergy  of  neighboring  places. 

The  four  Counts  of  Manderscheid  had  also  ridden  up  in 
great  state.  They  would  not  be  denied  the  honor  of  carrying 
the  canopy  under  which  the  famous  man  was  to  walk. 

With  mingled  feelings  of  expectation  and  remorse,  the  old 
parents  stood  timidly  behind  all  these  great  ones. 

"  Oh,  mother,  how  will  our  learned  son  approach  us  ?  "  the 
old  man  said  nervously  to  his  wife.  She,  dressed  in  the  simple 
and  unassuming  manner  which  she  had  always  followed,  did  not 
answer.  She  listened  instead  ecstatically  to  the  conversation  of 
the  Abbots  of  Sponheim  and  of  Springirsbach.  The  Abbot  of 
Sponheim  had  just  said: 

"  Truly  Cardinal  Cusanus  seems  like  an  angel  of  light  and 
of  peace  in  the  midst  of  the  darkness  and  confusion  which  is  in 
Germany.  He  is  succeeding  in  restoring  harmony  and  unity 
in  the  Church  and  the  authority  of  the  Holy  Father.  He  is 
sowing  a  rich  and  fruitful  seed  of  faith  and  charity.  One  might 
call  him  the  apostle  of  piety  and  of  learning.  It  is  wonderful  how 
this  great  spirit  can  settle  all  controversies  peacefully." 

Then  the  Abbot  of  Springirsbach  added : 

"But  his  activity  is  just  as  great  and  as  beneficent  in  the 
realms  of  natural  history,  and  of  mathematics,  and  astronomy. 
He  fills  me  with  awe.  One  could  think  him  a  magician,  if  he 
were  not  known  as  a  model  of  priestly  virtues.      Just  think,  he 


188  NICHOLAS  CUSANUS. 

claims  that  the  earth  turns  on  its  own  axis  and  keeps  up  a  pro- 
gressive motion  around  the  sun !  "* 

The  Abbot  of  Sponhcim  shook  his  head  thoughtful!}^ : 

"  If  he  is  right,  he  will  be  praised  some  day  as  the  greatest 
mind  of  our  age." 

"  Oh,  he  is  that  anyway — " 

Then  suddenly  the  church  bells  of  Lieser,  of  Andel,  of 
Bernkastel,  and  of  Kues  began  to  ring,  so  that  the  echoes  came 
back  from  the  hills. 

"  The  Cardinal's  boat  is  in  sight,"'  was  the  message  that  had 
come  from  the  lookout  on  the  hills. 

At  last  the  boat  came  gliding  along  majestically,  flying  the 
papal  colors  beside  those  of  Treves,  and  hung  over  and  over  with 
draperies  and  rugs  of  cardinal  red.  Under  the  canopy  stood  the 
Cardinal  himself,  surrounded  by  clergy,  high  officials,  and  mem- 
bers of  the  nobility. 

First  there  was  an  awed  silence,  as  in  a  church;  then,  how- 
ever, the  cheers  broke  forth  like  the  roar  of  the  surf : 

"  Long  live  Cusanus  !  Long  live  the  Cardinal !  ''  Kerchiefs 
were  waved  and  hats  thrown  into  the  air.  As  the  boat  ap- 
proached the  landing-place,  there  was  silence  again,  however. 
The  Cardinal,  tall  and  strong,  with  his  face  shaded  by  the  red 
hat,  his  figure  enveloped  in  the  red  robe,  stepped  on  shore.  His 
big,  dark  eyes  lighted  with  enthusiasm  as  he  looked  upon  the 
scenes  of  his  childhood.  He  looked  down,  and  it  seemed  as  if 
the  mighty  man  would  kiss  the  ground  of  his  native  land,  but  he 
did  not.  His  fine  energetic  face,  with  its  full  red  lips,  and 
straight,  classical  nose  grew  tender,  however,  for  a  moment. 

The  priest  of  Kues  stepped  up  before  the  Cardinal  and  greeted 
him  in  Latin  as  the  founder  of  the  hospital,  the  benefactor  of 
the  town  for  all  time. 

After  Cusanus  had  answered  fittingly,  in  Latin  also,  the 
clergy  and  people  knelt  and  asked  for  the  episcopal  blessing. 

*  Nkholas  of  Ciisa  was,  as  is  woU  litiown.  tlio  forcninnor  of  (^oporniriis 
and  of  Galileo  In  ranlntnininp  llio  immobility  of  the  sun  as  the  center  of  the 
planetary  system. 


ANTONIE  HAVPT.  189 

During  this  time  Nicholas  Krebs  and  his  wife  had  drawn  back 
more  and  more.     Krebs  nudged  his  wife: 

"  God  help  us,"  he  said,  "  if  this  great  gentleman  is  our  son.'' 

But  Mistress  Catherine  answered,  much  moved : 

"  He  is.    He  is  my  son." 

The  four  Counts  of  Manderscheid  came  forward  and  raised 
the  canopy.  But  the  Cardinal  was  looking  into  the  crowd.  He 
had  heard  a  feeble  voice  cry: 

"  Claus,  my  son !  " 

Then  suddenly  he  moved  toward  a  little  old  woman,  opened 
his  arms,  and  clasped  her  tenderly  to  him. 

"  Mother,"  he  said.  "  Mother,  I  have  you  again.  God  has 
kept  you  for  me." 

But  the  old  woman  said  shamefacedly,  while  the  tears  stood 
in  her  eyes : 

"  I  am  not  worthy  of  such  a  son.     Here  is  your  father." 

Yes,  there  stood  Nicholas  Krebs,  timid  and  ashamed,  his  hat 
in  his  hand :  "  My  son  and  Lord  Cardinal,  can  you  forgive  me, 
that  I  once  threw  you  out  into  the  world,  not  understanding  the 
greatness  of  your  mind  ?  " 

Cusanus  laughed.  "  My  dear  father,  that  was  a  good  deed. 
You  see  it  turned  into  a  blessing  for  me.  Forgive  the  lazy  boy, 
in  your  turn,  and  then  everything  will  be  well."  Then  he  kissed 
his  father,  too. 

He  held  out  his  hand  lovingly  to  his  sister  Clara,  and  motioned 
to  her  husband,  the  Mayor  of  Treves,  to  step  up.  Then  he 
looked  about. 

"  Where  is  my  sister  Margaret  ?  " 

Some  one  came  rustling  up  in  a  gold-brocade  gown,  with  a 
purple  cloak,  stiff  with  gold  embroideries.  The  lady,  whose  beau- 
tiful head  was  crowned  with  jewels,  bowed  low,  and  said : 

"  Lord  Cardinal,  I  am  your  sister  Margaret,  now  the  wife  of 
the  Court-Bailiff  Matthias  of  Bernkastel." 

The  Cardinal's  dark  eyes  looked  her  up  and  down,  as  if  he  had 
never  seen  her. 

"  You  are  not  my  sister.     No  one  belonging  to  me  dresses  in 


190  NICHOLAS  CUSANU8. 

such  costly  clothes/"  and  then  he  turned  away  and  left  Margaret 
weeping. 

The  Cardinal  was  led  to  the  church  and  then  the  pontifical 
Mass  began.  Scarcely  a  tenth  of  those  who  had  come  could  enter 
the  church,  but  those  who  stood  outside  also  took  an  ardent  part 
in  the  holy  celebration. 

When  the  ceremonies  at  the  church  were  over,  the  Cardinal 
was  escorted  to  the  refectory  of  the  hospital  he  had  founded. 
The  buildings  were  not  yet  completed,  but  the  garlands  and 
draperies  hid  all  that.  All  the  rich  families  of  the  neighbor- 
hood had  sent  draperies  and  carpets  to  help  decorate  the  hall. 
A  table  arranged  in  the  form  of  a  horseshoe,  and  covered  with 
satiny  linen,  filled  three  sides.  Gold  and  silver  tableware  glittered 
on  it,  all  joyously  loaned  for  the  great  occasion.  The  middle 
section  of  the  table  was  raised.  Here  the  Counts  of  Mander- 
scheid  put  up  their  canopy. 

That  was  a  joyous  meeting  between  the  counts  and  the  Car- 
dinal. To  be  sure,  the  Cardinal's  noble  benefactor,  the  old  Count 
Diedrich,  was  gone.  His  son  Diedrich  had  taken  his  place  and 
was  much  beloved  by  his  subjects. 

The  earnest  and  thoughtful  Ulric,  whom  Claus  had  loved 
particularly,  had  died  in  1436  as'Bishop  of  Treves.  Two  of  the 
counts  were  canons  in  Cologne,  and  one  was  a  monk  in  Eehter- 
nach.  The  last  one  whispered  to  Cusanus:  "We  did  not 
get  as  far  as  you  have."  The  Cardinal  answered  solemnly: 
"  Everything  that  I  have  done  with  the  help  of  God,  I  owe  to 
your  noble  father  and  his  charity,  and  I  remember  him  every  day, 
when  I  say  the  holy  Mass." 

As  the  assembled  guests  prepared  to  go  to  table,  the  Cardinal 
asked  that  on  this,  his  great  day,  his  parents  be  placed  as  his 
neighbors  on  the  right  and  on  the  left.  Opposite  him  he 
washed  to  have  his  sister  Clara  and  her  husband,  the  Mayor  of 
Treves.  His  sister  Margaret  in  the  mean  time  had  come  back, 
humbly  attired  in  simple  garments,  asking  the  Cardinal's  for- 
giveness. 

"'  I  thought  I  owed  yop  that  tribute  to  your  greatness,"  she 


ANTONIE  HAUPT.  191 

said  in  excuse.  Then  he  asked  that  Margaret  and  her  husband 
be  placed  opposite  him,  too. 

Thus  the  day  became  a  happy  family  reunion  for  the  Cardinal. 

In  spite  of  all  the  formal  grandeur  which  surrounded  him, 
and  which  he  had  to  permit  on  account  of  his  position,  and  in 
spite  of  the  great  reputation  that  he  had  won  for  himself, 
Nicholas  Cusanus  preserved,  in  his  own  private  life,  a  patriarchal 
simplicity. 

That  sunny  day  in  September  of  1451,  on  which  he  celebrated 
a  reunion  with  all  the  companions  of  his  youth  still  left  in  this 
world,  had  been  a  day  of  unclouded  happiness  for  the  Cardinal. 
Even  so,  it  was  a  day  of  glory  to  the  inhabitants  of  the  Moselle 
valley  for  many  miles  around.  Long  after  the  great  man  had 
passed  on  his  blessed  way,  they  still  talked  of  it. 

The  Cardinal  died  on  August  11,  in  1464,  after  a  visit  to 
Todi  in  Umbria,  where  he  went  as  the  Papal  Legate.  He  was 
then  Prince  Bishop  of  Brixen. 

The  beautiful  monument,  which  he  made  for  himself  when 
he  founded  the  hospital  of  Kues,  is  still  standing,  and  continues 
to  this  day  in  its  blessed  work.  The  buildings  are  in  perfect 
preservation  inside  and  out,  just  as  the  Cardinal  had  them  built. 
Thirty-three  weak  old  men  are  cared  for  in  the  hospital.  The 
cruciform  wings,  and  the  beautiful  Gothic  church  adjoining,  are 
one  of  the  sights  of  the  vicinity.  Here,  beneath  a  metal  plate, 
rests  the  heart  of  the  great  man,  and  beside  him  lies  his  favorite 
sister  Clara.  Her  memorial  stone  has  a  fine  portrait  in  relief  of 
her. 

On  the  wall  of  the  refectory  is  a  painting  of  Cusanus  and 
under  it  is  inscribed : 

"  A  true  representation  of  the  Eeverendissimi  et  illustrissimi 
Nicolaus  von  Cusa,  Cardinal  and  Bishop  of  Brixen,  Founder  of 
the  Hospital  at  Kues." 

Honor  be  to  his  memory ! 


REV.  JOSEPH    SPILL'MANN,    SJ. 

Father  Spillmann  was  born  on  April  22,  1842,  in  Zug, 
Switzerland.  In  his  short  stories  he  gives  a  vivid  and  moving 
description  of  his  picturesque  native  town.  The  boy  began  his 
studies  at  the  gymnasium  of  his  home  town.  His  delicate  health, 
however,  interrupted  these  studies  for  a  time  and  he  went  to  work 
in  his  father's  mill.  This  active  exercise  was  so  beneficial  that 
he  was  soon  enabled  to  resume  his  studies,  going  to  the  Jesuit 
College  at  Feldkirch  this  time.  After  staying  here  for  four  years 
he  went  to  the  Jesuit  novitiate  of  Gorheim  near  Sigmaringen. 
After  that,  together  with  Baumgartner  and  other  friends  of  his 
Feldkirch   days,  he   studied   at   Munster   in   Westphalia.     Then  he 


took  up  philosophy  at  the  monastery  at  Maria- Laach.  He  took 
part  in  the  Franco- Prussian  war  as  a  vokuiteer  nurse,  and  in 
1872  he  was  awarded  a  medal  for  his  heroic  services.  Never- 
theless, he  was  banished  with  his  Order  shortly  afterwards.  In 
order  to  continue  his  studies  he  then  went  to  England.  He  was 
ordained  to  the  priesthood  in  1874,  and  was  sent  to  Tervueren.  In 
Belgium,  where  ha  became  associate  editor  of  the  famous 
periodical,  Stiinmen  aiis  Maria- Laach  and   KatJwUsche  Missioncn. 

Here  Father  Spillmann  developed  a  remarkable  and  distin- 
guished literary  activity.  Stories  and  sketches  for  the  young, 
scientific  and  travel  tales  compiled  from  the  rich  resources  of  the 
Maria- Laa-ch  correspondence  and  relations,  came  from  his  pen 
in  rapid  succession.  What  a  wealth  of  valuable  material  is  con- 
tained in  the  mission  paper  is  shown  in  the  collection  of  the  large 
monographs  "  Rund  um  Afrika,"  "  Durch  Asien,"  "  Ueber  die 
Siidsee,"  "In  der  neuen  Welt,"  which  Father  Spillmann  compiled 
from  the  different  volumes.  Besides  his  large  works,  valuable 
from  an  historical  and  a  geographical  point  of  view,  Father 
Spillmann  published  a  series  of  stories  from  mission  countries 
under  the  title  of  "Aus  Fernen  Landen."  But  of  more  im.portance 
here  are  his  novels  and  romances.  Of  these  the  first  eight  volumes 
appeared  under  the  title  of  "  Wolken  und  Sonnenschein."  now  in 
their  fifth  edition.  "One  can  hardly  say  what  is  most  admirable 
in  these  novels."  writes  a  critic,  "the  sympathetic  style,  the  keen 
delineation  of  character,  or  the  profound  culture  of  the  author." 
His  romance  "Die  Wunderblume  von  Woxindon,"  proves  his  right 
to  be  ranked  with  the  great  historical  novelists,  according  to  the 
critic  of  the  London  Star.  This  novel  was  followed  by  "  Ein 
Opfer  des  Beichtgeheimnisses; "  "Lucius  Flavius,"  a  tale  of  the 
last  davs  of  Jerusalem;  "Tapfer  und  Treu,"  the  Memoirs  of  an 
Officer  of  the  Swiss  Guard,  and,  "Aus  dem  Leben  einer  Konigin." 
The  action  of  the  latter  is  in  the  days  of  the  French  Terror. 
All  these  works  have  gone  through  several  editions,  and  several  of 
them  have  been  translated  in   English  and  other  languages. 

Bishop  Keppler  of  Rottenburg,  says  of  Father  Soillmann's 
contributions  to  fiction:  "  Humility,  purity,  and  a  high  purpose  are 
qual'ties  sadly  lacking  in  modern  art.  Yet  these  are  the  most 
striking  characteristics  of  Spillmann's  works,  and  give  them  theiv 
irresistible  charm.  Spillmann  has,  moreover,  a  remarkable  com- 
mand of  language,  which  keeps  him  always  within  the  lines  of 
pleasing  simplicity  and  attractive  fidelity  to  nature.  Such  writings 
are  bound  to  have,  not  only  a  great  influence  upon  the  formation 
of  a  fine  literary  taste  in  the  reader,  but  also  in  the  developm.ent 
of  sterling  oualities  of  character  and   mind." 


Xono  pbllip, 

A  Tale  of  the  Time  of  Frederick  William  I. 
BY  JOSEPH  SPILLMANN,  S.J. 


WHICH    TELLS    HOW    PHILIP    OUGHT    TO    HAVE    STAYED    AT    HOME 
AND  OBEYED  HIS  FATHER,  BUT  DID  NOT. 

On  the  border  of  Prussia  and  Saxony  there  is  a  pleasant  valley 
in  which  there  has  been  a  mill  from  time  immemorial.  ,The 
ancient  building,  with  its  curiously  carved  cornices,  its  many 
little  windows,  its  high  gables,  and  its  thatched  and  moss-covered 
roof,  rises  in  the  center  of  the  forest  clearing  fringed  by  oak  trees 
centuries  old,  gnarled  and  twisted.  The  mill  is  called  the  Valley 
Mill,  and  is  the  very  last  building  on  Saxon  soil.  Not  a  thousand 
paces  away  the  mill  race  crosses  the  Prussian  line.  Away  back 
in  the  gray,  forgotten  years  the  same  miller  family  lived  in  the 
mill  that  grinds  grain  there  now.  And  a  more  honest  family 
never  was  among  the  grain-grinding  children  of  men. 

The  most  famous  miller  in  the  history  of  the  family  lived 
about  the  middle  of  the  last  century.  He  was  popularly  known  as 
"  Long  Philip,"  and  that  for  the  good  reason  that  he  stood  head 
and  shoulders  above  any  man  within  miles. 

At  that  time  the  lonely  valley  was  even  more  quiet  and  shut 
off  than  it  is  now.  Great  forests  stretched  in  every  direction  for 
miles.  Only  here  and  there  was  their  dense  solitude  broken  by 
a  peasant's  farm,  or  the  seat  of  some  petty  nobleman.  Once 
in  a  while,  too,  there  was  a  tiny  village.  The  special  place  of  the 
neighborhood   was    an   old   hunting   lodge   of   the   Electors   of 

195 


196  LONG   PHILIP. 

Brandenburg.  From  time  to  time  it  was  visited  by  the  great  folk, 
wlio  amused  themselves  for  a  few  weeks  with  the  chase  and  its 
altenthmt  gaieties.  But  from  the  time  that  the  Electors  of 
Brandenburg  wore  the  Prussian  crown  none  of  them  had  been  at 
the  hunting  lodge,  and  it  seemed  deserted  for  good. 

Then  all  at  once  the  news  went  the  round  among  the  forest- 
dwellers  that  King  Frederick  William  I.  was  coming  from  Berlin 
with  a  great  suite  to  hunt  in  the  ancient  forests.  This  was 
very  exciting  news  for  these  people  who  saw  nothing  from  one 
end  of  the  year  to  the  other  but  the  still  sameness  of  their  woods 
and  fields.  The  very  old  people  now  brimmed  with  tales  of  the 
great  times  at  the  ancient  chateau  at  previous  hunts.  The  young 
fellows  were  accordingly  all  eagerness — there  would  be  much  to 
see  and  perhaps  some  part  to  take  in  the  great  doings. 

The  people  who  lived  in  the  little  hamlet  clustering  around 
the  castle  were  frequent  visitors  to  the  mill.  They  had  much  to 
tell  of  the  scourings  and  cleanings  and  grand  preparations  going 
on.  The  old  castellan  had  even  sent  to  the  city  for  a  new  livery 
with  silver  and  gold  fringes.  One  day  they  brought  word  that  the 
king  and  his  suite  would  arrive  in  two  days.  Some  of  the 
servants  and  game  beaters  and  drivers  had  already  arrived. 

That  same  evening  Long  Philip  was  asked  to  come  up  to  the 
sitting-room  for  a  private  talk  with  his  father.  The  old  man  was 
just  then  suffering  from  an  attack  of  gouty  pains  that  kept  him 
tied  to  his  armchair. 

"  I  hear,"  he  said  to  Philip,  "  that  the  Prussian  king  is  coming 
to  the  castle  to-morrow.  All  I  want  to  tell  you  now,  Philip,  is 
that  during  the  time  that  he  and  his  people  are  in  this  neighbor- 
hood you  must  not  leave  the  house,  to  .say  nothing  of  crossing 
the  Prussian  line.  And  that  you  may  be  the  more  willing  to  obey, 
I  will  tell  you  why.  You  know  how  the  king's  mind  is  set  on 
tall  fellows.  Every  time  he  sees  one  he  wants  to  grab  him  up  and 
put  him  among  his  guards.  If  he,  or  one  of  his  men,  caught  sight 
of  you,  you  would  have  to  go  to  Berlin  just  as  sureW  as  the  mill 
wheel  is  turning  outside.  Therefore,  you  will  stay  here  in  the 
house  during  that  time.    Do  you  understand  me  ?  " 


JOSEPH    SPILLMANN,  8.J.  197 

"  But,  father,  I'm  no  Prussian.  I  am  a  Saxon,  and  the  Prus- 
sian king  has  no  right  to  my  services  at  alL    It  would  be  too — " 

"  Saxon  or  Prussian,  it  is  all  the  same  to  the  king.  I  tell  you, 
you'll  stay  at  home.  Frederick  William  has  his  own  notions  as 
far  as  tall  soldiers  are  concerned.  He  keeps  up  a  continual  chase 
after  the  long  ones,  and  they  are  not  safe  from  his  recruiting 
officers  even  in  foreign  countries.  Just  lately  somebody  told  me 
that  he  had  grabbed  up  some  tall  fellows  in  Silesia,  in  Holland, 
and  in  England,  and  carried  them  ofE  by  main  force.  Even  in  Rome 
he  had  a  tall  monk  taken  away  by  force  and  sent  to  Spandau. 
Therefore,  once  more,  you  keep  yourself  out  of  sight  while  he  is 
here,  if  you  do  not  want  to  bring  great  sorrow  on  yourself,  your 
betrothed,  and  your  old  father.  Now  go  and  look  after  your  work. 
I  hear  a  ring  below." 

The  command  was  short  and  to  the  point,  but  the  obeying  of 
it  was  unspeakably  tedious  and  trying  for  Philip.  Every  day 
people  came  into  the  mill  and  told  wonderful  tales  of  the  rich 
cavaliers  and  their  mighty  perukes  and  braids,  of  the  noble  ladies 
in  stiff  skirts,  of  the  immense  Turks  that  acted  as  the  king's  body- 
guard, the  Hussars,  the  squires,  the  hunters,  the  soldiers,  the 
horses,  with  silver-mounted  harness  and  ostrich  plumes, 
carriages  and  so  on — all  glories  of  which  poor  Philip  was  con- 
demned to  know  nothing  except  by  report.  And  that,  too,  when 
he  was  the  only  one  of  the  whole  neighborhood  in  this  plight. 
But  he  dared  not  try  to  enjoy  the  wonderful  sight.  For  the  first 
time  in  his  life  he  grumbled  at  the  immense  stature  to  which 
he  owed  his  nickname.  Then,  too,  it  was  this  very  stature  which 
it  was  so  tantalizing  to  conceal  here  in  the  mill.  He  would  have 
liked  to  go  over  to  the  hamlet  and  show  himself  to  the  famous 
Grenadiers,  with  their  high,  bearskin  caps,  of  whom  he  constantly 
heard  that  they  were  just  as  tall,  perhaps  even  a  little  taller  than 
Long  Philip. 

But  the  time  of  the  hunt,  as  everything  else  in  this  world, 
fortunately  drew  to  a  close.  "  On  next  Monday,"  it  was  said, 
"  the  last  big  chase  will  take  place,  and  then  the  king  will  go  back 
to  Berlin  in  a  few  days." 


198  LOXGf    PHILIP. 

"  Thanks  be  to  God,"  sighed  Philip  wlien  he  heard  this.  *'  I 
shall  be  free  to  go  about  again  when  he  is  gone." 

Monda}^  came.  It  was  the  most  beautiful  autumn  day  that 
could  be  imagined.  The  sun  soon  pierced  and  dissolved  the  faint 
fog  that  floated  over  the  valley  and  shone  full  on  the  forest 
glory  of  color.  From  the  gable  Avindow  of  the  mill  there  was  a 
wonderful  outlook.  Here  Philip  stood  on  Monday  morning  and 
looked  disconsolately  now  at  the  wooded  heights  that  rose  on  the 
Prussian  side  and  then  again  down  at  the  dancing  waves  of  the 
sparkling  mill  race  that  dashed  in  white  foam  against  the  great 
water-wheel  and  then  caught  the  glinting  sunbeams  and  fell  be- 
low in  rainbow  sprays. 

But  for  all  the  wondrous  charm  of  nature  spread  out  before 
him  Philip  had  no  eyes.  His  whole  attention  was  on  the  distant 
sounds  of  the  chase.  The  north  wind  ])rought  him  the  bay  of  the 
pack,  the  cries  of  the  beaters,  the  merry  sound  of  the  horn  and, 
now  and  again,  the  crack  of  a  gun.  He  listened  for  a  long  time, 
and  every  moment  the  desire  to  have  a  look  at  it  all  became 
stronger. 

"  I  shall  have  to  be  ashamed  of  myself  all  my  life,"  he 
grumbled  angrily,  "  if  I  am  the  only  one  in  the  country  around 
who  did  not  sec  the  king  and  his  guard.  And  what  they  say 
about  the  tricks  and  the  practices  of  his  recruiting  sergeants  is 
probably  exaggerated,  too.  They  would  not  dare  to  take  me  off 
Saxon  ground.  Moreover,  I  can  arrange  it  so  that  they  will  not 
have  a  chance  to  see  me.  To  be  sure,"  he  added  after  a  while, 
"  father  forbade  me  to  go,  but  a  man  ought  not  be  a  child  all  his 
life  and  have  every  move  he  makes  laid  down  for  him.  Am  I 
not  twenty-two  years  old,  and  am  I  not  going  to  be  married 
the  week  after  All  Saints  ?  Am  I  not  big  enough  to  be  my  own 
master?  I  am  afraid  that's  what's  the  matter — I  am  too  big  to 
be  my  own  master." 

The  bell,  calling  him  down  into  the  mill,  interrupted  his 
soliloquy.  There  was  work  enough  to  do  now,  and  in  doing  it 
he  almost  forgot  his  annoyance  and  his  temptations. 

After  he  had  been  at  work  for  two  hours  or  so,  there  was  a 


JOSEPH    SPILLMANN,  8.J.  199 

knock  at  the  door.  He  opened  it  and  saw  a  little,  hunchbacked 
woman,  with  a  bright,  kindly  face,  who  had  a  pedler's  pack  in 
front  of  her  on  a  little  hand  wagon. 

"  Oh,  is  it  3'ou,  Gertrude  ?  There  are  no  flour-bags  to  be 
mended  to-day." 

"  Indeed ;  so  they  are  not  torn  yet  ?  I  am  glad  to  hear  that, 
for  I  sewed  them  particularly  well  the  last  time.  Ah !  when  I  am 
dead  I  do  not  know  whom  you  will  get  to  sew  your  fine  flour- 
bags  right  for  you — for  six  miles  around  there  is  none  that  can 
sew  as  well  as  I  do.  But,"  she  added,  winking  at  him,  "  I'll  teach 
the  innkeeper's  daughter  Anna  to  sew  just  as  soon  as  she  is  the 
miller's  wife.  Ah,  you  need  not  blush,  Philip.  You  couldn't 
have  found  a  better  girl.  Now,  what  did  I  want  to  say?  I  did 
not  stop  here  merely  on  account  of  the  bags.  I  want  to  show  you 
something."  With  this  she  opened  her  box  and  held  out  daintily, 
on  her  finger  tips,  a  tinsel  wreath  that  glittered  and  shone  in  the 
sunlight. 

"Now,  what  does  that  mean  ? "  asked  the  miller,  who  was 
looking  at  the  wreath  in  astonishment.  "  You  do  not  want  me  to 
buy  that  thing,  do  you  ?  " 

"  Not  for  yourself,"  answered  Gertrude  laughingly,  "  but  for 
Anna.  You  see  after  the  hunt  this  evening  the  folk  around  here 
will  be  given  a  feast  on  the  green  below  the  castle.  Then-  when 
the  king  returns  later  in  the  evening  the  justice  of  the  village 
is  going  to  make  a  farewell  speech  to  the  king.  He  did  not  com- 
pose the  speech  himself.  The  preceptor  at  Aabach  composed  it 
for  him,  and  the  justice  had  so  much  Latin  put  into  it  that  he 
could  not  read  it  himself.  He  had  to  have  it  read  to  him,  until 
he  knew  it  by  heart.  The  speech  ought  to  have  come  off  at  the 
arrival  of  the  king  in  fact,  but  at  that  time  the  justice's  new 
apple-green  surtout  was  not  yet  ready — " 

"  The  old  fop,"  said  Philip.  "  I  bet  he'll  stick  in  the  middle 
of  his  speech." 

"  That's  what  most  of  the  people  think.  But  he  imagines  that 
it  will  win  him  special  favor  with  the  quality,  and  thinks  that 
maybe  he  will  be  made  sheriff.    He  has  taken  it  into  his  thick 


200  LOXG   PHILIP. 

head  to  speak  his  piece,  and  nobody  can  make  him  do  anything 
else.  And  so  it  has  been  decided  that  the  prettiest  girl  in  tlie 
neighborhood,  and  that  is  surely  your  Anna,  should  present  the 
king  with  a  bouquet  of  flowers.  Of  course,  she  is  to  be  dressed 
all  in  white,  like  an  angel,  and  this  golden  wreath  will  be  just  the 
thing  to  wear  on  her  head." 

"  That's  true,"  said  Philip.  "  I'll  buy  the  wreath  and  you  can 
take  it  right  over  to  the  inn." 

"Why  don't  you  take  it  yourself?  I  am  sure  the  dear  child 
would  be  twice  as  much  pleased  if  you  take  it  to  her." 

The  miller  shoved  his  cap  back  and  forth  on  his  flour- 
powdered  hair  in  embarrassment,  and  finally  began  to  tell  Ger- 
trude the  reason  for  his  unpleasant  confinement  to  the  mill 
during  the  last  few  weeks.  The  old  woman  listened  to  him  with 
many  sighs  of  sympathy,  and  broke  in  at  last : 

"  0  dear,  dear,  and  you  haven't  seen  a  thing  of  all  the  grand 
show?  The  king  himself,  it  is  true,  is  really  not  as  fine  as  the 
old  castellan,  who  had  a  beautiful  rose-colored  surtout  made  for 
himself.  But  the  ladies !  I  wouldn't  have  believed  that  the 
angels  in  heaven  could  be  dressed  so  beautifully.  They  have  hoop- 
skirts  as  big  round  as  these  millstones,  and  the  silk  in  their  gowns 
is  so  stiff  that  it  could  stand  alone,  and  is  all  covered  with  big 
Chinese  flowers.  You  have  never  seen  anything  like  it  in  all 
your  life." 

"  What  do  I  care  about  the  hoopskirts !  ^Miat  I  want  to  see 
is  the  Turkish  guards  and  the  big  Grenadiers  that  the  Prussian 
king  has  brought  together  from  all  over  the  world.  Are  they 
really  as  big  as  they  say  ?    Are  they  as  tall  as  I  am,  for  instance  ?  " 

"  They  are  terribly  big,  regular  Goliaths,  so  that  it  scares  a 
person  into  a  fright  just  to  look  at  them.  There  may  be  some 
of  them  that  are  even  taller  than  you  are,  although  I  couldn't 
be  positive  as  to  that.  They  all  wear  bearskin  caps  two  feet  high, 
and  that  makes  them  look  even  bigger  than  they  are.  You  must 
come  over  once,  at  least,  and  look  at  them.  To-night  it  will  be 
dark  before  the  king  and  his  people  return  to  the  castle.  You 
can  stay  back  among  the  shadows  and  look  at  the  show  to  your 


JOSEPH    SPILLMANN,  S.J.  201 

fill.  Nobody  will  sgg  yoii  imlops  you  want  him  to.  At  the  same 
time  you  will  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  Anna,  with  the  golden 
wreath  in  her  hair,  handing  the  bouquet  to  the  king." 

Philip  had  dallied  too  long  with  the  temptation  not  to  yield 
to  it.  The  old  woman  got  her  price  for  the  tinsel  wreath,  and  a 
message  to  Anna  that  Philip  would  come  over  in  the  evening  and 
bring  her  something  pretty.  Then  he  carried  the  wreath,  care- 
fully done  up  in  its  pasteboard  box,  to  his  own  room,  while 
Gertrude  went  her  way  toward  the  Prussian  line,  pleased  with  her 
bargain. 

After  a  little  while  Philip's  father  came  hobbling  into  the 
mill  leaning  on  his  cane.  He  stood  a  while  watching  his  sturdy 
son,  who  sifted  and  lifted  and  poured  with  a  vigor  and  handiness 
that  did  one  good  just  to  see.  The  old  man  went  the  round, 
watching  things  here  and  there,  and  finally  said :  "  It  is  all  well, 
very  good  except  the  bran.  It  looks  as  if  the  stones  needed 
smoothing." 

"  Yes,  father,"  said  Philip,  "  I  shall  sharpen  them  to-morrow." 

"  Then  you'll  have  to  grind  all  night,  for  some  of  this  flour  is 
wanted  day  after  to-morrow." 

"  Oh,  well,  it  might  be  a  day  late  without  much  harm.  But 
never  mind,  it  shall  all  be  ready  in  good  season." 

"  You  are  a  little  put  out  because  of  being  shut  up  so  long, 
and  I  don't  blame  you.  And,  while  I  happen  to  think  of  it,  hitch 
up  the  little  wagon  for  me  after  supper.  I  would  like  to  go  over 
myself  and  have  a  look  at  the  king  of  the  Prussians.  I  am  sorry 
that  you  have  to  stay  at  home,  but  it  can't  be  helped.  I  shall  take 
old  Martha  with  me,  too.  You  are  man  enough  to  watch  the  mill 
alone  for  one  night.  Perhaps  I'll  stay  at  the  inn,  and  perhaps  I'll 
come  back." 

With  these  words  the  old  man  left  his  son.  He  had  seen  well 
enough  how  eager  the  young  fellow  was  to  go.  But  leaving  him 
alone  thus,  he  wanted  to  make  it  a  matter  of  honor  and  necessity 
for  Philip  to  stay  at  the  mill.  Indeed,  if  Philip  had  not  bought 
the  wreath  for  Anna,  his  father's  tactics  would  have  been  suc- 
cessful.   Now,  however,  he  felt  that  he  had  to  go. 


202  LONG   PHILIP. 

"  Nobody  will  carry  off  the  building  in  the  two  hours  of  my 
absence/"'  he  said  angrily,  "and  long  before  father  gets  back,  I'll 
be  here  and  have  the  mill  a-going." 

II. 

WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  PHILIP  AT  THE  FESTIVAL. 

Slowly  the  sun  went  down,  its  last  rays  lingering  on  the 
turrets  and  windows  of  the  royal  chateau,  which  rose  majestically 
from  the  top  of  a  rolling  hill.  At  its  foot  stretched  a  wide  valley 
of  plowed  land  and  meadows,  framed  by  a  chain  of  densely  wooded 
hills. 

On  this  evening  castle  and  hamlet  were  gay  with  holiday 
dress.  From  the  castle  turrets  floated  flags  and  pennants  in 
the  mild  evening  air.  On  the  open  space  at  the  foot  of  the 
castle  hill  the  village  people  had  built  a  triumphal  arch.  A 
wide  circle  around  it  was  fenced  off  by  pine  branches  stuck  into 
the  ground.  Inside  of  this  circle  the  address  to  the  king  was  to 
be  made. 

On  the  green  outside  several  dozens  of  long  tables  were  set  for 
the  entertainment  of  the  peasants,  who  had  helped  at  the  hunt. 
The  women  were  naturally  there,  too,  in  their  wide-sleeved,  full- 
skirted  holiday  best,  and  the  usually  quiet  place  below  the  castle 
presented  a  picturesque  and  animated  scene.  The  justice  ap- 
peared about  this  time  in  full  state  dress.  The  long  tails  of  his  new 
apple-green  coat  almost  dragged  on  the  ground,  and  the  im- 
mense wig  above  the  stern-looking  forehead  gave  him  a  dis- 
tinguished look — at  least  so  the  justice  thought.  But  the  villagers 
could  hardly  keep  from  laugbing.  Many  a  joke  flew  the  round 
behind  his  back,  which  would  have  given  him  little  pleasure 
could  he  have  heard  it.  Conscious  of  his  importance,  however, 
he  passed  the  peasants  without  a  word,  or  look,  of  greeting,  and 
made  his  way  straight  to  the  castellan,  whom  he  saluted  with  a 
scraping  bow. 

"  Ah,  it  is  the  justice,"  said  the  castellan.  "  Does  he  know  his 
speech  ?    Will  he  not  make  a  break  before  his  Majesty  ?  " 


JOSEPH    SPILLMANN,  8  J.  203 

"I  hope  not.  It  has  Ijcon  "well  mnrmurized."  He  meant 
"  memorized."  "  And  with  eyes  shut,  so  that  the  august  sight 
of  the  king  may  not  he  too  confusing,  it  will  go  '  par  hleu/  as 
Colonel  Eoederer  is  wont  to  say." 

Thus  spoke  the  justice,  hut  down  in  his  heart  he  was  by  no 
means  as  sure  of  himself  as  he  pretended  to  be.  The  speech,  which 
he  carried  neatly  rolled  up  in  his  right  hand,  seemed  a  great 
weight.  He  was  even  then  beginning  to  be  conscious  of  the  ex- 
citement that  precedes  great  moments.  In  his  nervousness  he 
found  a  thousand  and  one  things  to  arrange  and  to  order.  He 
ran  back  and  forth  so  that  the  heavy  braid  of  his  wig  jumped 
up  and  down  on  his  back.  Although  the  king  was  not  expected 
until  after  dark,  he  insisted  that  the  villagers  line  up  along  the 
pine  hedge.  Suddenly  it  struck  him  that  the  ceremony  of  hand- 
ing the  ^bouquet  to  the  king  should  be  rehearsed  once  more. 
When  he  discovered  that  the  innkeeper's  daughter  was  not  even 
at  the  public  meeting-place  as  yet,  he  almost  lost  his  mind. 

At  once  he  sent  a  messenger  in  hot  haste  to  the  inn,  a  quarter 
of  a  mile  away,  to  get  the  girl.  She,  for  her  part,  would  have  been 
there  long  since,  but  she  was  still  waiting  for  Philip.  Just  as  she 
began  to  feel  that  she  could  not  possibly  wait  any  longer,  after 
the  urgings  of  the  justice's  messenger,  Philip  came. 

"  Oh,  it  is  you  at  last  ?  Your  father  is  in  the  big  room  and 
said  you  were  not  to  come.  If  the  Prussians  should  see  you,  it 
would  be  all  over  with  you." 

"  Oh,  yes,  but  they  will  not  see  me.  Keep  quiet,  so  that 
father  will  not  know  that  I  am  here.  He  would  be  angry  if  he 
knew  it." 

"  He  told  you  not  to  come,  did  he  ?  If  I  knew  positively 
that  that  were  so,  I  wouldn't  say  another  word  to  you  to-day." 

Philip  looked  at  his  betrothed  in  utter  surprise,  but  after  a 
moment  it  seemed  to  him  he  saw  a  hint  of  the  tease  in  the  gleam 
of  her  bright  eyes.  "  Well,  don't  be  angry  anyway.  It  was  on  your 
account  that  I  came." 

"Very  well,  then,  you  can  go  home  again.  You  have  seen 
me." 


204  LONG    PHILIP. 

"  But  I  must  see  you  Avlicn  j'ou  present  the  bouquet  to  the 
king,  and  the  Turkish  guard  and  the  big  Grenadiers  may  be  there, 
too." 

"  Aha,  that's  it.  That  is  what  brings  you  over  here.  You 
want  to  go  up  and  stand  beside  the  bearskin  caps  and  show  that 
you  are  a  half-inch  taller  than  any  of  them,  even  if  you  make 
yourself  and  your  old  father  and  me  unhappy  by  doing  so." 

"  Don't  be  childish,  Anna.  I  shall  not  stand  in  the  front  rows. 
Just  see  what  I  have  brought  you.  You  shall  be  as  fine  as  any 
of  the  Berlin  ladies  to-night.  See  how  it  sparkles  and  shines," 
said  Philip,  holding  up  the  tinsel  Avrcath. 

"  And  you  bought  that  for  me,  Philip  ?  "  cried  the  girl.  "  You 
are  a  dear,  good  fellow,  anyway !  But  I  beg  you  to  go  home  right 
away.  You  can  not  imagine  w'hat  agony  I  shall  be  in  this 
evening  if  I  know  that  you  are  near  the  Prussian  soldiers." 

Then  she  called  her  mother  to  look  at  the  lovely  wreath,  and 
Philip  said  good-by.  Anna  called  after  him,  "  Now,  you'll  surely 
go  home,  Philip  ?  " 

"  To  be  sure,  this  very  evening." 

"  Xo ;  at  once." 

"  Don't  worry,  Anna — not  a  soul  shall  see  me." 

Then  he  slipped  out  through  the  back  door,  so  his  father 
should  not  notice  him. 

A  few  minutes  later  the  whole  party  at  the  Inn  broke  up  for 
the  scene  of  the  festivities.  The  old  miller  in  his  light  wagon 
drove  a  little  way  up  the  hill  and  took  position  there  so  that  he 
could  see  what  was  going  on  in  comfort. 

Night  had  come,  but  the  immense  bonfires  threw  a  red 
glare  against  the  old  castle  and  over  the  bright  groups.  Now, 
several  carts  loaded  with  game  drove  up — deer,  wdth  splendid 
antlers,  hares  and  wild  pigs.  But  the  most  wonderful,  and  at 
the  same  time  fearsome,  sight  was  that  of  an  immense  boar  on  a 
cart  by  itself  and  covered,  after  the  fashion  of  the  chase,  with 
green  pine  branches. 

There  was  no  holding  the  people.  They  all  ran  pcllmell 
to  see  the  game.    Not  until  the  advance  guard  of  the  king  galloped 


JOSEPH    SPILLMANN,  S.J.  205 

up  would  the}'  go  back  to  tlioir  places.  TliG  rat-tat-tat  of  drums 
sounded  from  the  castle,  and  the  company  of  Turkish  body- 
guards, which  the  king  had  brought  along,  marched  down,  fol- 
lowed by  the  Grenadierf!,  gold-fringed  attendants,  jockeys  and  so 
on,  and  formed  a  cordon  to  keep  back  the  crowd. 

This  was  the  first  time  the  peasants  had  had  a  chance  to  see 
these  unaccustomed  figures  in  such  numbers  and  at  such  short 
range,  and  they  had  not  yet  gotten  over  their  astonishment  when 
the  sound  of  horns  came  from  the  forest.  "  They're  coming ! 
they're  coming !  "  was  the  cry,  and  all  heads  turned  toward  the 
driveway.  Soon  there  was  the  gleam  of  torches  through  the 
trees,  and  in  a  few  minutes  some  of  the  advance  riders  were  seen 
at  the  edge  of  the  forest.  Foremost  came  a  number  of  hunters, 
merrily  blowing  their  horns.  After  them,  drawn  by  magnificent 
horses,  came  coaches  with  the  court  ladies;  then  came  the 
king,  surrounded  by  torch-bearers,  and  followed  by  gentlemen  of 
the  court.  The  end  of  the  train  was  made  up  by  hunters.  Hus- 
sars, jockeys,  and  servants,  all  clothed  in  brilliant  colors,  and 
glittering  with  silver  and  gold  ornamentations. 

Straight  across  the  meadow  came  the  train  toward  the 
triumphal  arch,  under  which  the  justice  and  the  white-robed 
5^oung  girls  stood.  The  cold  sweat  was  on  the  poor  man's 
forehead,  as  he  saw  the  magnificent  people  before  whom  he  was 
to  speak  draw  so  near. 

The  castellan  had  sent  word  to  the  king  that  the  people  of 
the  country  district  wished  to  greet  him,  and,  being  in  very  good 
humor,  he  had  given  his  consent  to  listen  to  the  justice's  speech. 
"But,"  he  added,  warningly,  "be  sure  to  tell  him  to  cut  it 
short." 

So  the  coaches  stood  still  and  the  attendants  formed  a  pro- 
tecting circle  around  the  king  and  the  ladies  and  gentlemen. 

With  solemn  step  and  incessant  bows  and  clearings  of  the 
throat  the  justice  approached  the  king,  followed  by  the  girls  in 
white.  All  the  while  the  justice  repeated,  to  the  right  and  to 
the  left,  in  a  stage  whisper.  "  Xow  watch.  "When  I  bow  you 
must  all  bow,  and  when  I  call  out  '  Hoch ! '  you  must  all  cheer." 


206  LONG   PHILIP. 

The  justice  had  by  this  time  come  near  to  the  king.  Holding 
his  cocked  hat  in  one  hand  and  his  speech  in  the  other,  instead 
of  standing  a  little  to  one  side,  he  stopped  directly  in  front  of  the 
horses.  He  made  one  more  profound  bow,  which  caused  his  wig  to 
slip  well  into  his  eyes,  and  was  about  to  begin  when  the  king 
stopped  him.  "  Does  he  want  to  address  the  horse  ?  Can  he  not 
come  to  our  right  side  if  his  address  is  meant  for  us?" 

After  these  words  from  royalty  it  did  not  need  the  suppressed 
titter  of  the  bystanders  to  rob  the  poor  justice  of  what  little  self- 
possession  was  left.  Xevertheless,  he  made  another  most  profound 
bow  directly  in  front  of  the  horse,  which  reared  as  the  uptilting 
braid  struck  its  sensitive  nostrils.  Then  he  stepped  to  the  side 
of  the  king — but  to  the  left  side. 

"  Is  that  our  right  side  ? "  asked  the  king  laughingly. 
"  Doesn't  the  man  know  which  is  right  and  which  is  left,  and  he 
justice  here  in  this  village?" 

The  poor  justice  went  over  to  the  right  side  and  tried  to  talk 
three  times,  and  three  times  he  stuck  at  the  very  first  sentence.  It 
did  not  help  the  matter  to  have  the  king  tell  him  to  read  the  speech 
from  the  paper.  The  poor  justice  could  not  read  it.  The  pause 
was  becoming  more  and  more  painful.  The  king  was  beginning 
to  look  anno3'ed,  and  might  have  said  something  after  his  rather 
rough  manner  that  would  not  have  been  pleasant  for  the  justice — 
when  the  innkeeper,  who  was  standing  near,  stepped  up,  and  in 
•a  few  words  expressed  the  greeting  of  the  people,  and  ended  in  a 
cheer,  which  the  peasants  joined  until  the  hills  echoed  and  re- 
echoed with  their  voices. 

The  justice  had  had  several  charges  of  powder  placed  in  the 
underbrush  at  the  side  of  the  castle  hill,  and  had  ordered  his 
servant  to  touch  them  off  when  he  heard  the  people  cheer.  It 
was  right  near  this  place  that  the  old  miller  had  stopped  his  light 
wagon.  In  some  unpardonable  way,  no  one  had  told  the  old  man 
of  the  danger  of  his  choice  of  place.  His  horse  was  even  then 
restless  at  the  glare  and  cheers  and  the  blowing  of  horns  and  sound 
of  the  drums.  The  old  man  had  had  to  ask  a  lad  to  hold  its  head 
The  cheers  were  hardly  over  when  the  shots  rang  out,  and  the 


JOSEPH    8PILLMANN,  8. J.  5iU7 

horse,  blinded  by  the  flash  and  frightened  by  the  roar,  phmged, 
reared  up  until  the  shafts  snapped,  and  broke  away,  running 
straight  into  the  crowded  knot  of  humanity  below  the  foot  of  the 
hill.  The  screaming  people  dodged  the  animal,  which  was  making 
straight  for  the  place  where  Anna  was  just  offering  the  king  the 
bouquet.  The  king's  horse  plunged  and  reared,  and  the  frightened 
animals  threatened  a  terrible  accident  if  they  were  not  stopped  be- 
fore they  dashed  in  among  the  coaches. 

But  at  this  critical  moment  a  gigantic  form  rushed  between 
the  two  animals  and  caught  them  simultaneously  by  the  bits,  and 
with  iron  strength  pulled  them  steady  and  held  them  there;  a 
second  later  the  jockeys  had  surrounded  the  king  and  his  fractious 
horse.  The  unknown  relinquished  its  bit,  and  started  to  lead  away 
the  other  horse.     But  the  king  called  after  him,  "  Stop !  " 

The  unknown  was  none  other  than  Long  Philip.  In  spite 
of  the  entreaties  of  his  affianced,  he  had  hung  around  the  scene, 
watching  the  king  and  his  suite,  and  the  gigantic  Grenadiers. 
He  was  just  about  to  steal  away,  safe  and  unnoticed,  when  his 
father's  horse  ran  away  and  made  straight  for  the  king  and  Anna. 
Then  all  discretion  left  him.  Shoving  aside  the  crowding  people 
with  his  strong  arms,  he  sprang  forward  just  in  time  to  prevent 
a  terrible  accident.  That  he  had  shown  his  stature  and  immense 
strength,  to  say  nothing  of  his  courage,  to  the  king  in  the  best 
possible  light,  only  occurred  to  him  when  he  heard  the  command- 
ing "  Stop ! " 

Philip  stopped  and  turned  mechanically  toward  the  king. 
He  hardly  heard  the  frightened  cry  of  his  bride-to-be,  nor  could 
he  tell  later  who  had  taken  the  horse,  so  entirely  was  he  filled 
with  the  one  thought :    "Now  I  am  lost !  " 

"  Let  him  come  nearer,"  the  king  called  out  to  him.  "  I 
must  have  a  little  better  look  at  him.  What  a  fine  fellow ! 
Sergeant  Langbein,  stand  up  beside  this  man.  Put  the  bear- 
skin cap  on  him!  Fine,  splendid.  Colonel  Eoederer,  what  do 
you  think  of  this  new  man  ?  " 

The  officer  addressed  rode  up  and  looked  at  Long  Philip  with 
the  air  of  a  judge.    Then  he  answered :    "  At  your  service,  your 


208  LONG    PHILIP. 

Majesty,  the  fellow  is  a  full  half-inch  taller  than  Sergeant  Lang- 
bcin,  who  is,  as  is  well  known,  the  tallest  man  in  the  army.  By 
my  honor,  it  would  be  the  greatest  sin  man  could  commit  if  he 
were  not  to  be  a  Grenadier." 

"  It  would  be  unpardonable,"  the  king  agreed.  Then  he  asked 
the  unhappy  Philip  in  his  pleasantest  manner:  "What  is  your 
name  ?  " 

"  Philip  Moosbach,  your  Majesty." 

"  What  are  you  ?  " 

"  A  miller." 

"  Now,  hear  me,  Philip  Moosbach.  There  are  other  people 
in  plenty  who  can  swallow  flour  dust.  You  must  be  one  of  my 
Grenadiers,  as  surely  as  my  name  is  Frederick  William." 

"  But  I  do  not  want  to  be  a  soldier." 

"  Oh,  you  do  not  want  to  be  a  soldier !  Do  you  think  you  will 
be  asked  what  you  want,  when  it  is  so  plain  that  the  Lord  has 
meant  you  to  be  a  Grenadier  ?  " 

"  But  I  am  not  a  Prussian,  I  am  a  Saxon." 

"  As  if  there  were  any  difficulty  in  that !  People  from  every 
land  are  enlisted  in  our  army.  Just  remember  that,  now  that  we 
know  where  you  are,  we  will  know  how  to  get  you,  too,  even  if 
you  were  to  go  as  far  as  Hungary.  But  we  would  like  it  much 
better,  if  you  were  to  let  yourself  be  enlisted  in  good  will.  Here 
is  a  louis  d'or  which  you  may  take  as  a  reward  for  your  courage 
and  as  a  sign  of  our  good  will.  Corporal  Kluge,  see  that  this 
man  is  enlisted  before  we  leave.    He  must  go  to  Berlin  with  us.*' 

,The  king  touched  his  horse  lightly  and  rode  up  the  castle 
hill,  followed  by  the  renewed  cheers  of  the  people.  The  last  torch- 
bearer  disappeared  behind  the  castle  gate  and  the  sightseers 
melted  away  outside.  Corporal  Kluge,  a  big,  angular  fellow,  with 
great  mustachios  and  piercing  eyes,  went  up  to  Philip,  and  several 
other  soldiers  joined  them  at  a  sign  from  the  corporal.  Among 
them  Pliilip  got  back  his  wits.  He  saw  that  there  was  nothing 
more  to  be  done  by  force.  So  he  made  up  his  mind  to  put  a 
pleasant  face  on  the  matter,  and  keep  his  eyes  open  in  the  mean- 
time. 


JOSEPH    8PILLMANN,  8. J.  ii09 

"  If  it  must  be,"  he  said  to  the  soldiers,  "  let  us  go  and  drink 
the  king's  health  for  his  louis  d'or." 

The  Grenadiers  did  not  have  to  be  asked  twice.  Arm  in  arm 
with  Long  Philip,  they  started  off,  telling  him  the  while  of  the 
pleasures  of  soldier  life  in  Spandau. 

III. 

TRICK  AND  COUNTER  TRICK.  A  STRANGE  ADVENTURE,  IN  WHICH 
LONG  THILIP  HAS  THE  PART  OF  LOOKER  ON,  AND  HOW  THE 
STORY  ENDED  AT   LAST. 

Until  late  at  night  the  big  room  of  the  inn  was  filled  with 
guests,  who  ate  and  drank,  and  talked.  At  a  separate  table  sat 
Philip  with  the  king's  soldiers.  Anna,  who  passed  back  and  forth, 
sometimes  helping  to  serve  the  guests,  and  whose  eyes  were  red 
with  weeping,  could  not  understand  how  her  unfortunate  lover 
could  seem  so  jolly.  But  when  she  caught  a  meaning  look  from 
his  eyes,  she  began  to  think  he  had  some  plan.  Then  she  noticed 
that  he  filled  the  soldiers'  glasses,  told  them  stories,  urged  them 
to  drink,  and  drank  nothing  himself.  This  made  the  girl  feel  a 
little  less  anxious. 

At  the  head  of  the  big  table  sat  the  innkeeper  himself.  He 
had  saved  the  honor  of  the  village  on  this  evening,  and  the  vil- 
lagers were  singing  his  praises  accordingly,  the  while  they  berated 
the  justice  for  his  break.  Over  and  over  again,  the  guests  returned 
to  this  subject,  and  one  of  them,  always  emphatic  and  loud- 
mouthed, struck  the  table  with  his  fist  and  said,  loud  enough  for 
all  to  hear : 

"  This  is  what  I  say,  and  you  can  tell  any  one  who  wants  to 
listen,  that  I  said  so,  this  evening's  performance  may  cost  some 
one  (I  don't  want  to  mention  any  names)  his  position,  office, 
and  regard,  in  spite  of  a  new  wig  and  a  green  coat.  And  I  know, 
too,  who  will  take  his  place,  and  he  will  be  an  honor  to  the  whole 
parish.  We  have  heard  who  can  make  a  speech  before  the  king, 
without  having  it  written  out  by  somebody  else.  I  am  no  prophet, 
but  things  like  that  are  plain  as  the  nose  on  one's  face." 


310  LONG  PHILIP. 

During  this  speech  the  unhappy  justice  appeared  in  the  door- 
way behind  tlie  speaker  and  licard  what  was  being  said  of  liim. 
He  had  come  to  take  the  innkeeper  to  task  for  mixing  in  without 
being  asked  to  do  so.  In  his  vanity  he  imagined  tliat  he  would 
have  been  able  to  finish  his  speech  any  way,  had  he  not  been 
supplanted,  and  therefore  he  felt  that  he  had  been  disgraced 
before  his  Majesty  and  his  suite  by  the  innkeeper.  What  he 
had  just  heard  showed  him,  however,  how  inopportune  was  the 
time  for  his  charge.  Yellow  with  anger,  he  screamed  into  the 
room :  "  I'll  remember  that  speech  of  yours.  Hill  Farmer — and 
yours,  too,  innkeeper.  I  am  still  the  justice,  and  will  stay  the 
justice  in  spite  of  you.'"  With  that  he  went  out  and  banged  the 
door,  followed  by  roars  of  laughter. 

But  the  innkeeper  could  not  feel  really  happy  on  this  evening, 
pleasant  as  the  praises  of  his  neighbors  were  to  him.  He  kept 
looking  over  at  the  table  at  which  his  prospective  son-in-law 
was  seated.  Now  the  lad  caught  his  eye  and  called  out :  "  Say, 
a  word  with  you,  innkeeper." 

The  innkeeper  rose  and  left  the  room  with  Philip.  They 
were  scarcely  outside  the  door  when  the  corporal  rose  to  go  after 
them.  Philip  had  but  time  to  whisper  a  few  words  when  the 
corporal  was  beside  him  again.  So  Philip  asked  aloud  about  his 
father,  and  whether  he  had  been  hurt,  and  added  with  a  sigh: 
"  Tell  my  father  that  it  will  be  some  time  before  I  can  come  back 
to  the  Valley  Mill.  Do  you  know  my  good  friend  and  comrade 
here — Corporal  Kluge  ?  "  he  asked  the  innkeeper  then.  "  There's 
not  a  better  inn  than  this  from  here  to  Berlin,  now,  on  your  honor, 
is  there,  Corporal  ?  Let  us  go  back  and  cheer  up  the  others,  and 
then  I'm  with  you.    Long  live  the  king." 

They  went  back  into  the  room  and  Philip  told  more  stories 
and  filled  the  soldiers'  glasses  again.  Midnight  was  past  when  the 
Grenadiers  and  their  new  recruit  went  singing  and  shouting 
along  the  forest-path  toward  the  quarters.  They  had  turned  in 
the  wrong  direction,  when  they  got  into  the  shadow  of  the  trees, 
but  even  the  corporal,  sleepy  and  full  of  confidence  in  his  new 
man,  did  not  notice  anything  amiss.    ISTot  until  they  came  upon 


JOSEPH    8PILLMANN,  S.J.  211 

a  little  forest-stream,  did  lie  grow  dubious  and  protest  that  he  had 
never  seen  it  before.  But  Philip  managed  to  lull  his  suspieions. 
"  Don't  you  suppose  that  I  know  the  country  around  here  ?  Just 
go  on.    We  must  get  over." 

"  The  miserable  bit  of  a  plank  hasn't  even  a  handrail,"  the 
first  soldier  grumbled. 

"  Oh,  what's  that  ?"  said  Philip.  "  Surely  an  honest  Grenadier 
does  not  mind  a  little  thing  like  that." 

The  two  Grenadiers  thus  urged  tried  their  weight  on  the 
plank  and  Philip  followed.  Whether  it  was  that  they  were  not  in 
a  condition  to  walk  straight,  or  that  Philip  helped  them  along 
with  a  push,  at  any  rate,  the  one  in  the  back  stumbled  against  the 
one  in  front  and  both  of  them  went  over  into  the  water,  which, 
by  the  way,  was  not  deep  enough  to  be  dangerous  to  such  tall 
fellows. 

"  There  they  go.  Now  we're  in  a  pickle,"  said  Long  Philip. 
"  Corporal,  do  you  stay  over  there,  and  I'll  go  onto  the  other  side, 
so  that  we  can  the  better  help  them  get  to  dry  land." 

But  hardly  had  Philip  reached  the  further  side  when  he  seized 
the  plank  and,  with  a  great  wrench,  tore  it  loose  from  its  pro- 
tecting poles  and  threw  it  down  toward  the  two  Grenadiers,  who 
were  splashing  around  in  the  water,  their  teeth  chattering  from 
the  cold. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  you  ? "  called  out  the  corporal. 
"  How  do  you  expect  to  get  back  ?  " 

"  I  don't  expect  to  go  back,"  laughed  Long  Philip.  "  The  creek 
is  the  border  line.  I  am  on  Saxon  ground  here,  and  so,  good-by. 
Eeport  to  your  Frederick  William  that  the  long  lad  has  long 
legs." 

There  was  despair  and  rage  on  the  other  side,  but  Philip 
did  not  need  to  fear  pursuit.  It  took  some  time  to  get  the  Grena- 
diers out,  and  then  they  had  to  fish  out  their  bearskin  caps.  The 
cold  plunge  had  sobered  them  up,  and  they  could  see  very  well 
how  useless  it  was  for  them  to  try  to  follow  Philip  in  the  forest- 
wilderness  and  darkness.  So  they  concluded  to  return,  as  best 
they  could,  heavy-hearted  at  the  thought  of  what  the  king  would 


212  LO:SG   PHILIP. 

say  when  he  found  how  cleverly  the  coveted  prize  had  escaped 
them. 

The  return  road  was  really  not  very  easy  to  find,  riiilip  had 
taken  them  straight  through  the  thickest  forest.  The  sun  was 
high  before  they  came  across  a  poor  woman  gathering  firewood, 
and  got  their  bearings  from  her. 

Colonel  Eoederer  was  properly  frightened  when  he  heard  their 
report. 

"  Why,"  he  said,  "  the  king  talked  of  nothing  else  all  evening. 
The  new  recruit  seemed  to  give  him  more  pleasure  than  the  entire 
hunt.  The  man  will  have  to  be  here  by  to-morrow  morning,  or 
there'll  be  trouble." 

Corporal  Kluge  did  not  need  any  such  spur  to  make  him 
eager  to  find  Philip  again.  He  knew  the  king  and  his  passion 
too  well.  Then,  too,  he  wanted  revenge  for  the  trick  played  on 
him.  He  walked  along  the  lonely  road  that  passed  back  of  the 
village,  thinking  and  planning,  when  he  suddenly  saw  the  Justice. 
That  was  it — the  justice  must  help  him.  He  saluted  him  pleas- 
antly and  began  talking  to  him. 

"  On  my  honor,"  he  said,  "  I  am  sorry  fOr  you.  That  was  a 
great  speech  you  began  yesterday.  It  was  easy  to  be  seen  that  it 
was  fine,  but  the  stupid  villagers  would  confuse  any  one." 

"  And  so  your  worship  noticed  that  too  ?  That  pleases  me 
very  much.  The  awe  of  the  king  and  then  those  restless  vil- 
lagers— " 

"  To  be  sure,  to  be  sure ;  but,  unfortunately,  his  Majesty  did 
not  observe  the  causes,  and  made  some  most  ungracious  remarks 
about  you  last  evening.  It  might  be,  indeed,  that  the  innkeeper, 
whose  speech,  just  between  us,  was  really  very  poor,  not  to  be  com- 
pared with  yours,  may  yet  be  your  successor." 

"  Has  that  been  said?    Oh,  I  believe  it  would  kill  me." 

"  Oh,  I  am  just  speaking  of  possibilities.  It  Avould  be  a  good 
thing  for  you  if  you  could  show  5'our  devotion  in  some  notable 
way  to  the  king.  There  is  the  very  best  chance  to  do  that  now. 
You  know  Long  Philip,  don't  you  ?  " 

"  To  be  sure.     He's  been  an  annoyance  to  me  this  many  a 


JOSEPH    SPILLMANN,  8 J.  213 

year,  and  particularly  now,  that  he  is  going  to  marry  the  inn- 
keepers daughter." 

"  Well,  you  have  the  very  best  possible  chance  not  only  to  get 
even  with  him,  but  to  win  the  king's  favor  at  the  same  time.  The 
fellow  got  away  from  us,  and  if  you  can  find  where  he  is  hiding 
this  very  day,  I'll  promise  to  put  in  a  good  word  for  you  with  the 
king." 

The  justice  was  delighted.  He  did  not  think  the  fellow  could 
have  gone  very  far,  and  the  two  conspirators  agreed  to  meet 
toward  evening  in  a  deserted  charcoal  hut.  The  justice  carefully 
described  its  location,  so  that  the  corporal  could  make  no  mis- 
take about  it.    Then  they  parted. 

They  did  not  suspect  that  their  talk  had  been  overheard  by 
old  Gertrude,  who,  tired  from  her  morning's  journey,  was  taking 
a  bit  of  a  rest  in  the  sheltering  shade  of  a  dense  hedge. 

The  affair  of  the  previous  evening  had  almost  made  the  poor 
old  woman  ill,  she  had  such  scruples  about  her  urging  of  Philip 
to  go  to  the  village.  When  she  heard  the  men  talking,  it  seemed 
that  Providence  was  giving  it  into  her  hand  to  make  good  her 
mistake.  After  they  went  away  she  wondered  what  she  ought  to 
do.  First  she  thought  to  go  to  the  mill,  then  to  the  innkeeper, 
but,  at  last,  she  concluded  that  it  would  be  best  to  go  to  the  hut 
and  hide  there  until  she  heard  the  outcome  of  the  justice's  quest. 

In  the  mean  time  the  justice  was  on  the  still  hunt.  He  went 
to  the  mill  first.  After  a  little  talk  with  the  loquacious  old 
Martha  he  had  his  suspicions  confirmed.  Philip  was  with  his 
cousin  Martin  on  the  Pine  Farm.  The  Pine  Farm  was  a  good 
two  hours'  travel  into  Saxon  country,  isolated  in  the  midst  of  a 
dense  forest.  Years  passed  sometimes  before  a  stranger  drifted  into 
the  lonely  place.  Some  distance  from  the  farm  there  was  a  pasture 
clearing  belonging  to  it.  In  this  clearing  the  justice  suddenly  ap- 
peared, to  the  astonishment  of  Long  Philip,  who  was  peacefully 
herding  the  sheep  in  place  of  the  regular  shepherd,  indisposed 
that  day.  But  he  was  so  lonesome  and  depressed  by  the  events 
of  the  day  before,  and  the  prospect  of  having  to  hide  for  years  to 
come,  that  he  was  really  glad  to  see  the  justice,  for  whom  he 


214  LONG   PHILIP. 

ordinarily  had  little  love.  The  justice  greeted  him  pleasantly, 
and  began  talking.  Philip  told  him  artlessly  how  it  was  that  he 
iiappened  to  be  there,  for  he  had  no  thought  that  this  man  would 
betray  one  of  his  own  neighborhood. 

The  justice  listened,  and  then,  saying  that  he  had  to  travel  on, 
so  as  to  reach  a  distant  farm  before  night,  left  him. 

As  he  was  leaving  he  asked  carelessly : 

"  You  go  back  to  the  Pine  Farm  at  night,  do  you  not  ?  " 

"  No ;  I  stay  here." 

"  I  am  sorry  to  hear  that.    It  will  be  a  wet,  unpleasant  night." 

"  I  don't  mind  that.  I'll  crawl  into  my  barrow  up  there  under 
the  big  pine  tree,  and  sleep  very  well.  Especially  since  I  did  not 
close  an  eye  last  night.    The  dog  may  watch  the  sheep." 

Then  the  men  said  good-by  to  each  other  and  parted.  As  soon 
as  the  justice  came  to  the  next  turn  in  the  road,  he  changed  his 
direction  and  hurried  back  as  fast  as  possible  by  by-paths  to  the 
cliarcoal  hut.  "  Victory  !  "  he  laughed,  full  of  assurance,  "  we'll 
catch  the  long  lad  and  win  the  favor  of  the  king  again." 

Philip,  in  the  mean  time,  saw  the  loneliest,  dreariest  day  of 
his  life  draw  to  a  close.  It  was  still  early  when  he  drove  the 
sheep  into  the  corral,  tied  the  dog  to  the  lower  end  of  the  fence, 
and  went  up  to  a  barrow  standing  on  a  two-wheeled  frame,  on 
which  he  was  to  sleep.  The  rain  the  justice  had  promised  began 
to  fall,  but  Philip  was  long  since  in  his  box,  well-bedded  on  fresh 
beech  nut  leaves  and  wrapped  in  a  woolen  blanket. 

Philip  had  no  idea  how  long  he  might  have  been  asleep,  when 
the  wild  barking  of  the  dog  waked  him  suddenly.  At  first  he  did 
not  realize  where  he  was.  He  wanted  to  get  up,  but  a  bump 
against  the  low  roof  of  the  barrow  brought  him  to  his  senses. 
Then  he  heard  the  rustling  of  something  moving  in  the  brush, 
and  a  moment  later  there  was  a  knock  on  his  sleeping-box,  and  a 
woman's  voice  asked :    "  Are  you  there.  Miller  ?  " 

"  To  be  sure ;  but  what  do  you  want  of  me  in  the  middle  of  the 
night,  and  who  are  you  ?  " 

"I  am  old  Gertrude,  the  pedler.  Dear  heaven,  wliat  things 
are  happening,  and  how  will  they  end  ?    Just  let  me  get  my  breath. 


JOSEPH    SPILLMANN,  8.J.  215 

I  ran  all  the  way  from  the  charcoal  hut  in  the  redwood,  nntil  I 
came  to  the  hollow  below  here.  There  I  stumbled  and  hurt  my 
foot,  so  that  I  thought  I  would  never  get  up  the  hill." 

"  But  what  is  the  matter  ?  Were  robbers  after  you  ?  Shall  I 
light  the  lantern  ?  " 

"  No,  no ;  no  light,  whatever  comes.  The  justice  and  the 
Prussian  soldiers  are  following  right  after  me." 

"  Oho !  "  said  Philip,  who  began  to  see  daylight.  In  a  moment 
he  was  out  of  the  barrow.  "  And  so  you  came  all  this  way  to  warn 
me  in  time.    I'll  remember  that  as  long  as  I  live." 

"  Wasn't  it  my  duty?  If  it  hadn't  been  for  me  and  the  gilded 
wreath  you  wouldn't  have  had  all  this  trouble.  They  will  be 
here  about  three  o'clock,  and  I  think  that  it  is  past  one  now." 

Then  she  began  to  tell  him  the  plan  she  had  overheard.  She 
was  not  a  little  surprised  that  the  lad  seemed  to  think  it  all  a 
huge  joke. 

"  They  expect  to  find  me  and  take  me  to  the  king,"  he  laughed 
out  aloud. 

"  Just  as  I  said ;  and  what's  more  they  expect  to  make  a  great 
joke  out  of  it.  They  intend  to  nail  up  the  door  of  your  sleeping- 
box  and  haul  you  and  the  barrow  into  the  courtyard." 

"  Fine,  fine,"  said  Philip.  "  And,  to  tell  the  truth,  they 
almost  succeeded.  But  we'll  see.  He  who  laughs  last,  laughs  best. 
We'll  fix  them.  The  corporal  will  have  a  bilious  fever,  and  that 
old  beau  of  a  justice,  who  wants  to  curry  favor  with  the  king  by 
betraying  an  honest  lad,  may  yet  find  himself  gathering  thistles 
instead  of  laurels." 

"  But  what  do  you  intend  to  do  ?  You  ought  to  get  away  as 
fast  as  possible,  I  should  think." 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it.  I  shall  see  the  beginning  of  the  farce  my- 
self, and  some  time  you  can  tell  me  the  wind  up.  The  matter  is 
very  simple.  You  get  into  the  box  instead  of  me,  and  let  yourself 
be  hauled  to  the  castle.  As  your  foot  is  lame,  it  would  be  hard  for 
you  to  walk  back  any  way.  I  am  going  to  climb  up  into  the  pine- 
tree." 

"  But  what  are  you  thinking  of,  Philip  ?    Do  you  mean  that  I 


216  LONG   PHILIP. 

should  creep  out  of  the  barrow  before  the  king  and  all  the 
qualit}^,  and  in  those  clothes?    Why,  they  would  hang  me." 

"  They  will  not  dare  touch  a  hair  of  your  head.  You  do  not 
need  to  tell  them  that  you  warned  me.  What's  more,  you'll  see 
the  best  joke  that  could  be  imagined.  I'd  give  ten  dollars  to  see 
the  faces  of  the  justice  and  the  corporal." 

"  But  they  will  find  out  the  trick  sooner — " 

"  Then  they  will  let  you  go  sooner,  and  you  have  lost  nothing." 

Gertrude  consented  at  last,  and  got  into  the  barrow,  while 
Philip  leaned  against  the  pine  tree,  ready  to  climb  into  it  at  the 
first  sound  from  the  forest  road. 

Everything  was  quiet  again  on  the  pasture.  The  rain  had 
stopped,  but  a  haze  hung  over  the  trees  through  which  the  moon- 
light came,  but  dimly.  In  the  narrow  forest  roads  it  must  have 
been  very  dark,  though  in  the  open  one  could  vaguely  distinguish 
outlines.  Time  dragged,  and  Philip  began  to  fear  that  the 
soldiers  were  not  coming  at  all,  and  so  he  would  miss  his  joke. 
Then  the  dog  began  to  bark.  The  next  moment  Philip  was 
climbing  into  the  pine  tree.  He  caught  the  fleeting  gleam  of  a 
lantern  between  the  trees.  Presently  he  heard  careful  movements 
in  the  underbrush.  The  dog  barked  much  more  furiously  than 
he  had  before,  and  dragged  at  his  chain.  Directly  beneath  the 
tree  Philip  heard  the  voice  of  the  corporal : 

"  That  dog  will  spoil  the  whole  game,  if  we  don't  hurry. 
Philip'll  wake  up,  and  I  have  no  desire  to  become  acquainted  with 
his  fists." 

A  second  later  he  heard  them  bang  the  door  of  the  barrow  shut 
and  bolt  it,  and  then  he  heard  them  all  laugh,  as  if  at  a  good 
joke.  And  for  the  moment  he  could  hardly  keep  from  laughing 
himself. 

"  So  there,  my  pretty  bird,  you  are  safe,"  said  the  corporal. 
"  Just  knock  away.  The  door  will  not  be  opened  until  we  reach 
the  courtyard.  He  will  have  time  to  be  sorry  for  some  of  his 
tricks  for  a  while.  Just  let  him  keep  still  in  there.  In  Spandau 
he  will  be  taught  how  to  stand  guard  better  than  he  did  up  here. 
Forward,  now." 


JOSEPH    SPILLMANN,  S.J.  217 

And  the  barrow  rolled  and  bumped  down  the  pasture.  In  the 
ravine  below  a  horse  was  hitched  to  it.  The  justice,  as  the  native, 
climbed  up  on  the  front  end  to  drive;  behind  him  were  the  cor- 
poral and  the  two  Grenadiers,  and  away  thumped  the  unusual 
vehicle  toward  the  Prussian  line. 

Philip  could  not  help  wishing  that  he  could  see  the  final 
scene  in  the  courtyard,  but  this  time  he  had  less  difficulty  in  con- 
quering his  curiosity  than  he  had  the  night  before.  At  the  break 
of  day  he  drove  the  herd  up  to  the  Pine  Farm,  and  explained  to 
his  cousin  Martin  why  he  thought  it  best  to  leave  the  country  for 
a  while. 

Almost  at  the  very  same  time  that  Philip  was  saying  farewell 
to  his  relatives  at  the  lonely  farm,  the  shepherd's  barrow  and  its 
contents  and  escort  reached  the  village.  At  the  foot  of  the  castle 
hill  there  was  a  halt.  The  corporal  went  up  and  reported  his  de- 
lightful success  to  the  colonel.  The  colonel  hastened  to  announce 
the  glorious  affair  to  his  Majesty.  Frederick  William  was  at 
breakfast  with  several  ladies  and  gentlemen  and  heard  the  jolly 
tale  with  immense  delight. 

"Let  him  have  the  barrow  brought  beneath  our  window  at 
once,"  commanded  the  king.  "  And  let  the  guard  turn  out.  We 
want  to  see  this  spectacle  for  ourselves.  And  let  him  take  note — 
Corporal  Kluge  will  be  promoted,  and  the  justice — who,  though 
he  seems  to  be  a  poor  orator,  yet  has  some  wit,  we  shall  reward 
personally." 

A  few  minutes  later  the  barrow  rolled  up  under  the  window 
and  stopped  there,  together  with  the  justice  and  the  soldiers. 
Every  eye  was  fixed  on  the  low  door.  But  when,  instead  of  the 
gigantic  form  of  the  miller,  poor,  hunchbacked  old  Gertrude  crept 
out  and  courtesied  to  the  king,  the  king's  window  was  thrown  shut 
so  hard  that  the  panes  flew  out. 

What  followed  can  easily  be  imagined.  Instead  of  promotion, 
there  was  punishment  and  dismissal.  The  following  morning  the 
king  and  his  suite  returned  to  Berlin.  He  never  came  to  the 
chateau  near  the  border  of  Saxony  again.  The  justice  had  to 
leave  the  neighborhood,  because  the  peasants  gave  him  no  peace 


218  LONG   PHILIP. 

after  his  double-dealing  was  known.  The  innkeeper  succeeded, 
indeed,  to  his  office.  In  the  mean  time,  Long  Philip  wandered 
through  South  Germany  as  a  journeyman  miller.  When,  after  a 
year,  the  news  that  Frederick  William  I.,  the  Great  Elector,  was 
dead,  and  that  his  son  and  heir  did  not  inherit  his  father's  mania 
for  tall  soldiers,  Philip  went  back  to  the  Valley  Mill.  Not  long 
after  there  was  a  merry  wedding  there. 

The  great  tables  were  spread  under  the  ancient  oaks,  and  the 
gaiety  was  at  its  highest,  when  a  strange  vehicle,  covered  with 
green  wreaths  and  mounted  by  lads  dressed  like  Prussian  Grena- 
diers with  immense  bearskin  caps,  was  seen  to  approach  from  the 
woods.  It  was  the  famous  barrow,  and  the  laughter  was  unending 
when  the  door  opened  and  old  Gertrude  crept  out — the  tinsel 
wreath  on  her  head. 

"  Yes,  neighbors,"  said  the  bridegroom,  when  the  laughter  died 
down ;  "  it  was  a  merry  prank  and,  fortunately,  had  a  good  end- 
ing. But  for  a  time  it  looked  bad,  and  it  cost  me  a  year  away 
from  home.  That  is  what  I  got  for  knowing  better  than  my 
father.    But  now  everything  is  well.    It  was  a  good  lesson  for  me." 

The  barrow  remained  at  the  Valley  Mill  as  a  family  treasure. 
The  great-grandchildren  of  Philip  still  showed  it  to  their  chil- 
dren, and  it  may  be  there  yet. 


»t.<s%Qri: 


HEINRICH    HANSJAKOB. 

Heinrich  Hansjakob  was  born  August  19,  1837,  in  Haslach, 
in  the  Kinzig  Valley,  Grand  Duchy  of  Baden.  His  father  was  a 
baker  and  restaurant  keeper.  His  ancestors  belonged  to  the 
hardy  Black  Forest  peasant  and  bourgeoise  type,  and  he  has 
preserved  towards  the  people  of  his  land  and  blood  the  most 
devoted  loyalty  and  affection.  He  has  put  the  types  of  his 
native  town  into  a  number  of  wonderfully  told  stories,  all  the  more 
effective    because    of   the    deep   sympathy  of   the  writer  with    his 


characters.  He  shares,  with  Alban  Stolz,  the  merit  of  being  the 
best  of  the  Catholic  writers  of  the  time  who  portray  the  Hfe  of 
the  people.  His  merits  as  a  writer  of  the  people  has  been 
recognized  in  Protestant  circles  as  well  as  among  Catholics,  and 
he  has  been  frequently  likened  to  Fritz  Reutsr  on  account  of  his 
unfailing  humor  and  his  fidelity  to  nature. 

He  was  educated  at  Freiburg  in  Breisgau  and  was  ordained  to 
the  priesthood  in  1863.  He  took  the  examination  for  the  degree 
of  philosophy  the  same  year.  Then  he  tJUght  for  six  years,  part 
of  the  time  in  Waldshut,  but  was  dismissed  from  the  State  service 
in  1869  and  placed  under  arrest  on  account  of  his  political 
attitude.  From  1869  to  1884  he  was  the  parish  priest  in  the 
little  village  of  Hagnau  on  Lake  Constance.  Since  1884  he  has 
had  a  parish  in  Freiburg,  where  he  is  beloved  by  the  people,  and 
honored  by  the  students  of  the  University  in  which  he  was  once 
enrolled. 

Eight  volumes  of  his  selected  writings  have  appeared.  The 
first  two  present  reminiscences  of  his  youth  and  student  days — 
"  Diirre  Blatter,"  "  Schneeballen,"  and  "Wilde  Kirschen,"  and 
the  other  three  are  tales  of  the   Black   Forest. 

An  illustrated  edition  of  the  novel  "  Der  Vogt  auf  M'uhlstein" 
was  very  successful.  Moreover  he  has  published  a  series  of  stories 
and  diaries:  "Auf  der  Festung,"  "  Im  Gefangniss,"  "Aus  Kranken 
Tagen,"  "  Im  Paradies,"  "  Bauernblut,"  "  Der  Leutnant  von  Hasle," 
"Der  Steinerne  Mann  vcn  Hasle,"  "Waldleute,"  "  Erinnerung 
einer  alten  Schwarzwalderin,''  etc. ;  besides  these  a  great  number 
of  short  stories  have  also  proceeded  from  his  pen.  These  are  the 
fruits  of  his  general  literary  labors.  His  spiritual  activity  has 
expressed  itself  in  a  series  of  Lenten  sermons  much  appreciated. 


fvom  tbe  Stor^  of  an  Tllnbappi?  Xtte. 

BY    H.    HANSJAKOB. 

It  has  been  my  custom,  these  many  years,  to  spend  my  vaca- 
tions in  the  suburbs  of  the  city  of  Freiburg.  I  have  secured  for 
myself  a  quiet  hermitage  in  what  was  at  one  time  a  Carthusian 
monastery,  but  is  now  the  municipal  poorhouse.  It  stands  in 
the  woods  near  the  city,  and  has  a  most  inspiring  outlook  over  the 
pine-bordered  valley  of  the  Dreisam  River.  Here  I  rest,  and 
think,  and  dream. 

When  the  days  are  fine  I  leave  my  refuge  and  wander  slowly 
down  into  the  green  valley  along  the  creek  and  through  the 
meadow.  Then,  after  a  while  I  return  to  my  cell,  filled  with  a 
quiet  happiness. 

Thus  it  happened  one  warm  afternoon  in  the  spring  of  the 
year  1898.  The  sun  smiled  on  hill  and  dale,  the  thrushes  sang 
jubilantly  in  the  pine  trees,  the  bees  hummed  along  the  blossom- 
ing bushes  beside  the  creek,  and,  on  the  meadows,  the  spring  blos- 
soms raised  their  faces  to  the  vivifying  light. 

Between  the  river  and  the  creek  I  sat  down,  beside  a  sluice 
which  regulated  the  irrigation  of  the  meadow.  In  front  of  me, 
in  the  dry  ditch,  there  lay  an  old,  worn  birch  broom. 

Scarcely  had  the  broom  noticed  that  I  looked  at  it  for  several 
moments,  when  it  seemed  to  me  as  if  it  began  to  address  my  con- 
sciousness thus : 

You  old  fellow,  you  have  come  here  just  at  the  right  time.  I 
have  seen  you  pass  often  and  would  have  liked  to  talk  to  you.  I 
am  one  of  the  beings  whom  the  civilization  of  mankind  has  made 
unhappy,  too, — one  of  its  very  first  victims.    Tlierefore  let  me  tell 

221 


222  FROM    THE    STORY    OF   AN    UNHAPPY   LIFE. 

you  the  tale  of  the  life  of  one  of  these  miserable  ones,  then  release 
me  and  tell  your  fellow  men  how  even  a  broom  must  suffer  for 
their  comfort  and  selfishness. 

I  have  been  lying  here  since  late  in  the  fall,  carried  to  this 
spot  by  the  water,  and  then  left  by  it.  In  all  my  life  no  one 
even  looked  at  me  pityingly.  You  are  the  first  person  who  ever 
turned  to  me  with  kindly  eyes.  Therefore  I  shall  pour  out  all 
my  woe  to  you  and  tell  you  all  the  misery  I  have  gone  through. 
For  even  a  broom  has  a  heart. 

I  know  you,  tall  man,  ever  since  the  days  of  my  happy  child- 
hood. My  home  was  your  home  too.  I,  too,  was  born  in  the 
Kintzig  Valley.  You  know,  perhaps,  the  still  little  lake  in  the 
farthest  corner  of  the  valley?  It  turns  the  mill  of  the  middle 
farmer  on  the  mountain.  Just  above  that  little  body  of  water 
that  looks  out,  like  an  eye  of  the  Earth,  upon  the  lonesome  world 
around  it,  my  mother  stood — a  stately  old  birch. 

It  was  spring  when  I  first  came  to  the  consciousness  of  being. 
In  the  meadows  below  me  spring  flowers  were  blooming,  above 
me  sang  the  larks;  in  the  lake  at  my  feet  the  trout  played,  and 
we  little  birch  twigs  caressed  each  other  in  the  soft  air. 

After  spring  came  summer.  The  shepherd  boys  la}'  in  the 
pastures  and  sang  while  the  sheep  peacefully  fed  beside  them. 

Gay  parties  went  on  past  us  up  to  the  castle,  the  Heidburg. 
In  the  fields  the  men  worked  merrily  and  busily.  The  sun  smiled 
afar  over  countless  wooded  heights  and,  as  if  veiled  in  silver,  the 
hills  of  the  Kintzig  Valley  looked  up  at  us. 

"  How  beautiful  is  the  Earth  and  life  on  her,"  I  thought  often 
in  the  spring  and  summer  time  of  my  young  life,  when  even  the 
storms  did  not  seem  able  to  hurt  us.  For,  when  a  storm  burst 
over  us,  we  little  birch-children  danced  and  sang  like  a  lot  of 
playing  boys. 

The  old  birch-mother  would  chide  us  and  say :  "  Do  not  be 
too  wild,  children,  or  you'll  feel  it  the  more  when  you  come  upon 
days  in  which  everything  will  not  be  as  you  like." 

We  laughed  when  she  talked  like  that,  and  told  her  she  was 
cranky  and  envious  of  the  delights  of  youth. 


H.   HANSJAKOB.  233 

"  The  time  will  come  when  you  will  think  of  me,"  she  might 
say  then,  "  when  you  are  far  away  from  home,  deserted  and  de- 
spised." 

And  then  she  would  tell  us  the  following  story,  which  she 
had  heard  from  her  forebears :  "  Once  the  birch  was  a  holy  tree. 
The  old  Kelts  who  had  lived  up  there,  long,  long  ago,  would  come 
into  the  birch  forests  in  May  time  to  offer  sacrifices  to  their  gods, 
drink  the  birch  sap,  and  dance  decently  beneath  the  birch 
branches. 

"  But  when  the  Franks  and  the  Alemanns  came  from  the 
Ehine  into  this  valley  and  over  the  hills,  they  brought  with  them 
their  God  Wodan  and  their  Goddess  Freya,  and  the  other  devil 
gods.  Then  the  women  learned  to  be  servants  of  the  devil.  They 
mounted  their  birch  brooms  and  flew  over  to  the  high  mountains, 
the  '  Farnkopf '  and  the  '  Kandel,'  and  there  practiced  all  sorts 
of  evil  rites  in  honor  of  Freya. 

"  In  the  day  time  they  kept  their  birch-broom  steeds  hidden 
in  the  kitchen,  so  that  they  would  be  at  hand  when  they  wanted  to 
fly  through  the  roof  to  ride  to  the  devil  mountains. 

"  But  from  the  convent  at  Gengenbach,  which  the  Frankish 
dukes  founded,  came  the  monks  and  preached  the  Christian  re- 
ligion. 

"  They  forbade  the  women  witchcraft  and  the  riding  of 
brooms,  and  told  them  instead  it  were  better  to  use  the  brooms 
to  sweep  the  filth  out  of  their  huts,  to  serve  the  true  God,  and  fly 
the  devil  and  his  works. 

"  To  drive  out  the  devil  the  better  the  monks  taught  the 
people  to  make  switches  out  of  the  birch  twigs,  and  to  punish  the 
children  with  them  when  they  did  not  mind. 

"  Thus  were  birch-brooms  first  made  and  also  switches  and 
cat-o'-nine-tails.  And  since  that  time  countless  birch-children 
have  had  to  leave  their  homes  and  their  mothers,  victims  in  the 
cause  of  the  culture  and  the  education  of  humanity. 

"  Some  of  us  go  to  perish  in  dust  and  filth,  and  others  must 
leave  their  lives  by  bits  on  the  backs  of  bad  boys  and  girls. 

"  Happy  the  birch-children  who  may  stay  with  their  mother 


224  FROM    THE    STORY    OF    AN    UNHAPPY   LIFE. 

until  she  too  must  die  and  then  rise  in  a  fiery  glow  to  heaven, 
when  the  Black  Forest  peasants  light  their  midsummer  fires." 

Thus  would  the  old  birch-mother  tell  us  tales  and  try  to 
point  out  to  us  the  seriousness  of  life.  But  in  vain.  We  played 
on  and  enjoyed  ourselves. 

One  day,  you,  too,  to  whom  I  am  telling  my  life,  went  through 
our  birch  grove.  You  came  up  from  the  valley.  Beside  you 
there  walked  a  very  old,  little  man. 

You  stopped  beside  my  mother,  leaned  against  her  trunk  to 
rest  yourself,  and  then  you  said  to  your  companion :  "  There's 
nothing  but  misery  in  this  world,  grandfather." 

"  Yes,  to  be  sure,  there's  nothing  else,"  he  answered.  "  But 
one  does  not  notice  it  until  one  gets  old." 

Then  you  two  went  on  again  softly,  toward  the  Heidburg,  but 
the  birch-mother  called  out  to  us :  "  Did  you  hear  now  what  there 
is  in  life?" 

But  indeed  we  did  not  listen;  we  only  played  on  more  gaily, 
for  we  were  young. 

Then  came  the  fall.  The  leaves  turned  yellow.  The  fogs 
rose  from  the  valley  and  covered  forest  and  meadow.  The 
shepherd  boys  lay  no  more  in  the  tall  grass  a-singing,  as  in  the 
summer  days.  Shivering  and  silent  they  went  up  and  down  with 
their  flocks.  Sad  of  face  the  peasants  dug  the  ground  apples  out 
of  the  cold  earth. 

On  the  field  that  we  little  birch-children  could  overlook,  a 
poor  day  laborer  was  doing  the  same  work.  Tlie  farmer  to  whom 
belonged  the  field,  the  mill,  the  little  lake,  and  the  birch  grove 
had  allowed  the  poor  man  to  plant  this  raw  piece  of  ground  with 
potatoes. 

Xow  the  man  was  digging  his  scanty  crop  out  of  the  poor  soil. 
His  wife  and  his  two  children  helped  him  at  his  work. 

Our  motlier  knew  him  well  and  had  warned  us  against  him 
even  in  the  springtime,  for  in  his  spare  moments  he  made  brooms. 

And  truly,  what  do  you  think  happened?  One  morning  the 
farmer  came  up  out  of  the  fog  on  his  way  toward  the  mill.  When 
Michael,  for  that  was  the  laborer's  name,  saw  him  he  laid  down 


H.  HAN8JAK0B.  225 

his  hoe  and  went  over  to  him  and  said :  "  To-morrow  I'll  be 
through  digging  potatoes  and  then  I  want  to  begin  making 
brooms.  And  so  I  wanted  to  ask  3'ou  if  I  could  cut  your  old  birch 
for  withes.  I'll  work  a  few  days  for  you  in  the  springtime  in 
return." 

"  To  be  sure,  Michael/'  said  the  farmer.  "  The  birch  grove 
will  have  to  be  cut  down  any  way  next  year.  The  trees  are  old 
enough  now,  and  birchwood  brings  a  good  price  down  in  the  city." 

At  his  words  a  moaning  went  through  the  grove,  and  old  and 
young  began  to  lament  at  the  thought  of  death.  Then  we  little 
ones  first  believed  our  mother's  words. 

On  the  second  day  after  Michael  came  down  with  his  two  boys, 
who  dragged  a  hand  cart  between  them. 

There  was  but  little  time  for  wailing  and  farewells.  One  of 
the  boys  was  climbing  up  the  trunk  of  our  mother,  a  sharp  knife 
in  his  teeth.  I  became  unconscious  with  fright.  When  I  re- 
covered I  was  lying  with  numberless  other  birch-children  under 
the  thatched  roof  of  an  ancient  hut  up  in  the  field  which  Michael 
worked.  He  himself  was  sitting  on  the  bench  beside  the  stove, 
cutting  and  binding  some  of  us  into  brooms. 

I  could  watch  Michael  through  the  little  windows  which  we 
almost  covered.  Peacefully  puffing  away  at  his  pipe,  he  cut  the 
birch  twigs  and  tied  them  together,  never  dreaming  that  he  was 
destroying  merry  lives  as  he  did  so. 

But  then  you  human  beings  have  little  sympathy  for  the  suf- 
fering that  you  inflict  upon  thousands  of  fellow-creatures.  You 
only  know  how  to  destroy  the  works  of  the  Creator.  You  act 
as  if  you  were  the  lords,  and  ruthlessly  sacrifice  everything  to 
your  selfishness. 

But  I  could  not  be  angry  long  at  Michael.  He  was  a  poor  man 
and  want  taught  him  to  make  brooms.  And  then  he  had  no  idea 
that  plants  and  trees  have  life  and  feeling  also. 

He  was  an  honest,  contented  man.  He  and  his  lived  poorly, 
but  righteousl}',  were  satisfied  with  coarse  food,  hoped  for  a 
better  life  in  another  world,  and  folded  their  hands  three  times  a 
day  in  prayer  to  their  Lord  and  God. 


226  FROM    THE    STORY    OF   AN    UNHAPPY    LIFE. 

One  morning  he  brouglit  us  children  of  the  old  birch-mother 
at  the  little  lake  into  his  warm  room  too,  to  put  the  last  touch  to 
our  misery.  In  the  room  there  was  an  old  woman,  his  mother, 
who  moaned  and  prayed  day  and  night.  Many  years  she  had  lain 
there,  helpless  with  rheumatism.  At  the  sight  of  her  I  felt  sorry 
for  you  human  beings  for  the  first  time  and  the  last  time.  It 
did  seem  too  much  to  me  that  the  poor  old  mother,  whose  lot  had 
been  nothing  but  hard  work  and  care  all  her  life,  had  to  suffer 
so  much  before  she  died  in  that  miserable  room  in  that  lonely 
place. 

But  the  more  I  learned  to  know  your  brutal  ways  afterward, 
the  less  sympathy  and  pity  I  had  for  your  sufferings. 

One  cold  winter  evening  Michael  tied  twenty-five  new  brooms, 
among  them  me  too,  together,  put  them  on  his  hand  cart,  and 
started  off  across  the  heath  with  them.  In  the  distance  I  got  a 
glimpse  of  the  birch  grove  that  had  been  the  home  of  my  youth, 
and  cast  one  long,  sad  look  back  at  it. 

At  a  lonely  house  called  "  The  Rose  Inn  "  Michael  stopped. 
A  wagon  was  standing  here  with  a  horse  hitched  to  it.  The 
teamster  was  sitting  inside  in  the  warm  room,  only  his  dog  was 
left  outside  to  watch  and  bark  at  the  poor  man  with  the  brooms. 
He,  however,  paid  no  attention  to  the  yelping,  but  threw  his 
brooms  on  the  wagon  and  went  in,  too. 

Every  Friday  evening  Hans,  that  was  the  driver's  name,  passed 
up  here.  He  came  up  out  of  the  Kintzig  Valley  and  went  on 
toward  Freiburg  for  the  Saturday  market.  Whoever  had  any- 
thing to  sell,  fruit,  butter,  eggs,  chickens,  sheep,  calves,  brooms, 
brought  his  goods  to  "  The  Rose  Inn  "  and  gave  them  to  Hans 
to  take  to  the  market. 

In  the  warm  room  of  the  inn  Hans  and  his  customers  were 
sitting  comfortably  bargaining,  buying,  selling,  drinking,  while 
outside  the  poor  beasts  shivered  and  waited. 

I  had  barely  had  time  to  look  about  and  discover  as  com- 
panions in  misery  several  bags  of  oats  and  a  basket  of  hens,  when 
a  farmer  came  driving  up  from  the  other  side  of  the  heath  and 
brought  a  sheep  and  a  calf,  threw  both  of  them,  bound  as  they 


H.  HANSJAKOB.  987 

were,  into  the  wagon  and  went  on  into  the  inn  too.  The  poor 
beasts  groaned  with  pain.  The  chickens  complained  softly,  wliile 
we  poor  brooms  bore  our  misery  in  silence. 

Then  the  driver's  old  spitz  dog  began  to  bark  scornfully  at 
the  poor  beasts:  "Why  are  you  so  sad,  your  lordships?  Are  we 
not  all  on  the  way  to  the  beautiful  city  of  Freiburg?  There  your 
miseries  will  soon  be  ended.  The  chickens  will  have  their  heads 
cut  off  and  the  sheep  and  the  calf  will  have  their  throats  cut. 
Then  the  people  will  fall  over  your  corpses  and  devour  them." 

At  this  the  poor  creatures  began  to  sliake  and  shiver  with 
fear.    And  indeed  they  might  well  be  afraid  of  man — the  heartless. 

"  And  you,"  the  dog  continued,  turning  to  us  brooms,  "  you 
will  be  a  little  better  off.  You  will  at  least  live  a  little  longer 
than  the  rest  of  the  children  of  the  country.  You  may  enjoy  the 
dust  in  the  houses  and  the  filth  on  the  streets  of  the  city,  and 
between  times  stand  in  a  dark  corner  and  be  glad  you  are  living 
on  this  beautiful  earth." 

Now  the  horse,  who  had  been  listening  to  everything,  turned 
around  and  called  out :  "  You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself, 
stupid  beast  of  a  dog,  to  speak  so  to  your  fellow-creatures.  Why 
should  you  put  yourself  above  others?  Hunger  and  blows  and 
kicks  are  your  lot,  too,  and  you  have  experienced  the  ingratitude 
and  brutality  of  men  as  well  as  I  have. 

"  For  the  last  ten  years  you  and  I  have  been  faithful  in  Hans' 
service,  yet  he  lets  us  stand  out  here,  cold  and  hungry  and  thirsty, 
while  he  is  comfortable  inside. 

"  When  you  are  old  he  will  kill  you  and  throw  you  into  the 
garbage.  When  I  am  old  he  will  send  me  to  be  killed,  and  in  the 
mean  time  curses  and  blows  and  whippings  are  all  we  get." 

Then  the  dog,  shamed  into  silence,  lay  down  and  grunted  to 
himself. 

At  last  Hans  came  out,  followed  by  the  farmers,  laborers,  and 
women  whose  goods  he  was  to  sell.  He  hung  his  lantern  on  the 
wagon,  lit  it,  and  started  off. 

When  we  came  down  into  the  valley  an  old  woman  stood  at 
the  crossroads  and  called  out  of  the  darkness  to  us.    It  was  Butter 


238  FROM    THE    STORY    OF    AN    UNHAPPY   LIFE. 

Barby.  These  many  years  she  bought  up  butter  for  the  Freiburg 
market  and  waited  here  every  Friday  evening  for  Hans.  She 
put  her  big  baskets  of  butter  in  the  wagon  and  then  climbed  up 
beside  him. 

She  began  to  complain  that  there  was  no  fun  in  trading  in 
this  bitterly  cold  weather.  The  day  before  she  had  tramped  from 
farm  to  farm,  gathering  up  the  butter,  and  wind  and  weather 
seemed  to  go  to  her  very  marrow.  If  it  were  not  that  now  and 
then  one  of  the  women  gave  her  something  warm  to  drink,  it 
would  not  have  been  bearable.  And  then  to  drive  the  whole  night 
in  the  cold  wagon  and  go  and  sit  in  the  cold  market-place  as  soon 
as  they  got  into  town !  One  could  do  penance  for  one's  sins  these 
days. 

Thus  she  lamented.  But  Hans  was  not  moved.  He  thought 
that  his  own  life  was  no  easier,  and  for  that  matter  it  was  part 
of  their  business.  If  she  had  become  a  seamstress,  or  something 
like  that,  she  could  sit  beside  the  stove  in  the  winter  and  in  the 
shade  in  the  summer. 

When  we  reached  the  town  after  the  long,  cold  night  ride, 
Hans  said  to  Barby :  "  You  might  offer  the  brooms  that  are  lying 
in  the  back  of  the  wagon  for  sale  along  with  your  butter.  Michael 
gave  them  to  me  to  sell  for  him.  He  is  a  poor  man,  and  I  should 
like  to  sell  them  at  as  good  a  price  as  possible,  but  you  know  more 
about  the  city  women  than  I  do,  and  so  can  sell  them  better." 

"  Certainly,"  Barby  answered.  "  I  will  try  to  sell  the  brooms. 
Birch-brooms  are  not  wanted  any  more,  but  I'll  do  the  best  I  can." 

A  half  hour  later  we  birch-children  were  lying  at  Barby 's  feet 
in  the  market-place  at  Freiburg. 

In  the  darkness  and  fog  the  market-women,  loaded  with  heavy 
baskets,  sat  down  on  the  long  rows  of  benches  in  the  cold,  stone- 
paved  place,  and  waited  shiveringly  for  the  city  women  to  come 
and  buy. 

WTien  the  cold  morning  sun  lit  up  the  place  I  saw  that  we 
miserable  brooms  were  among  the  least,  if  not  the  very  least,  of 
all  the  things  offered  for  sale. 

It  was  a  long  time  before  my  fate  was  decided.     First  the 


H.  HANSJAEOB.  229 

buyers  marketed  their  eatables — vegetables,  and  eggs,  and  butter, 
skimping  the  poor  country  women  as  much  as  possible  in  the 
price.  Nobody  seemed  to  be  looking  for  brooms,  and  although 
Butter  Barby  had  sold  nearly  all  her  butter,  we  poor  birch-chil- 
dren were  still  lying  at  her  feet  untouched  and  unsold.  She 
asked  over  and  over  and  over  again,  "  Don't  you  need  brooms  ?  " 
and  was  answered,  "  Birch  brooms  are  out  of  fashion.  The  liired 
girls  are  ashamed  to  use  them  nowadays." 

At  last  an  elderly,  plainly-dressed  woman  came  along  and 
asked  for  a  birch  broom.  She  wanted  it  not  for  herself,  but  for  a 
cook  who  did  not  want  to  carry  it  home.  This  cook  gave  her  the 
coffee  grounds  and  other  things  left  over  in  the  kitchen,  and  in 
return  she,  the  poor  woman,  did  errands  for  the  cook. 

Barby  chose  a  broom  and  gave  it  to  the  woman  for  twenty 
pennies.    I  was  that  broom. 

The  woman  took  me  under  her  arm  and  went  on  through 
streets  and  avenues,  and  at  last  entered  a  small  but  fine  house. 

In  this  house  my  real  misery  began.  What  I  suffered  in  the 
half  year  I  spent  there  would  fill  a  book.  But  I  will  be  brief,  for 
the  meadows  are  still  damp  and  you  might  take  cold  if  you  sit 
here  listening  to  me  too  long. 

The  house  was  the  home  of  a  young  married  couple.  He  was 
the  son  of  a  rich  brewer  and  lived  on  what  his  father  had  left 
him,  doing  nothing  but  amusing  himself.  She  was  the  daughter 
of  a  poor  university  professor  and  had  married  the  young  million- 
aire because  his  money  promised  her  a  luxurious  existence. 

He  smoked  cigars,  played  billiards,  went  hunting  and  shooting, 
read  the  papers,  and  speculated  a  little.  She  played  the  piano, 
painted  a  little,  rode  the  bicycle,  read  novels,  went  to  the  theater, 
and  gave  afternoon  receptions.  Of  keeping  house  she  had  not 
the  remotest  understanding.    She  could  not  even  make  tea. 

When  she  did  come  into  the  kitchen  occasionally  and  talk 
about  cooking,  what  she  said  was  so  stupid  that  the  cook  and 
the  chambermaid  could  hardly  keep  from  laughing,  and  made 
fun  of  her  as  soon  as  she  left.  The  servants  in  the  house  were 
girls  who  had  rid  themselves  in  the  city  of  everything  they  had 


230  FROM    THE    STORY    OF    AN    UNHAPPY    LIFE. 

brought  with  them  from  their  country  homes:  costume,  manner, 
dialect,  and,  following  the  example  of  their  employers,  religion 
also.  Sunday  morning  was  given  up  to  going  out  walking  with 
their  good  friends  among  the  soldiers  instead  of  going  to  church. 

The  servants  were  usually  amicable,  because  they  were  all 
agreed  to  cheat  their  emi)loyers  as  much  as  possible.  That  was 
how  1  came  into  the  house,  the  difference  in  my  cost  and  a  broom- 
corn  broom  going  into  the  cook's  pocket.  But  the  mistress  and 
master  were  less  agreeable  than  the  servants.  Sometimes,  late 
at  night,  I  could  hear  them  call  each  other  very  unpleasant  names ; 
she  casting  up  to  him  the  origin  of  his  money,  and  he  calling  her 
a  beggar  and  like  things.  But  the  next  day  they  would  seem  to 
have  made  it  up  again  and  all  one  heard  was  "  Dear  August " 
and  "  Emma,  dear." 

Thus  I  spent  my  time,  either  mistreated  in  the  dirt  and  filth 
of  the  street  and  kitchen  or  behind  the  door  in  darkness  and 
dust. 

But  the  hour  of  my  deliverance  seemed  at  hand.  The  winter 
had  been  long.  The  streets  were  dirtier  than  ever.  You  know 
in  Freiburg  it  is  still  the  custom  for  each  householder  to  sweep 
in  front  of  his  own  place.  And  these  times  were  really  the  hap- 
piest for  me,  for  the  elderly  woman,  who  bought  me,  did  this 
work  for  the  cook.  The  cook  was  ashamed  to  be  seen  sweeping 
on  the  street.  The  woman  always  washed  me  nice  and  clean  then 
in  the  little  stream  which  flows  through  all  the  streets  of  the  city. 

One  evening  the  cook  told  the  woman  to  throw  me  into  this 
stream  when  she  was  through  with  me  and  buy  a  new  one.  I  was 
good  for  nothing  more.  You  must  know  that  you  mistreat  the 
water,  which  is  nice  and  clean  when  it  comes  from  the  mountains, 
as  you  do  everything  else.  You  throw  your  refuse  and  dirt  into 
it  and  make  it  miserable. 

But  I  was  glad  to  be  out  in  the  water  in  God's  free  air,  even  if 
I  was  maimed  and  disfigured.  As  I  was  floating  merrily  past  the 
linden  trees  in  the  lower  town  a  rude  hand  grabbed  me  and  drew 
me  out  of  the  soft  waves.  The  man  carried  me  into  a  stable 
saying,  "  I  can  use  this  broom."    From  the  kitchen  of  a  fine  house 


H.   HANSJAKOB.  231 

to  a  stable  is  a  great  step  down,  but  yet  I  found  better  people  in 
the  stable  than  in  the  kitchen. 

The  groom  had  remained  a  peasant  at  heart,  even  if  he  had 
come  into  the  city.  He  was  honest,  kindly,  and  industrious.  He 
was  the  friend  of  the  horses  and  talked  with  them,  coaxed,  and 
petted  them.  He  and  his  master,  the  landlord  of  the  Linden  Inn, 
were  on  a  pleasanter  and  more  considerate  footing  than  the 
millionaire  brewer's  son  and  the  professor's  daughter. 

If  the  man  had  not  pulled  me  out  of  the  water  I  could  have 
liked  him,  for  he  was  the  only  human  being  I  had  so  far  seen 
who  had  any  sympathy  with  other  creatures. 

On  the  afternoon  of  the  first  and  last  Saturday  I  spent  at  the 
Linden  Inn  stables  a  farmer  came  across  the  courtyard  as  if  he 
were  looking  for  something.  When  he  saw  me  he  carried  me  out 
into  the  street,  where  his  wagon  was  standing,  and  laid  me  under 
a  little  keg,  so  it  would  not  roll  around  when  he  was  driving 
along. 

I  was  on  one  side,  and  on  the  other  was  a  piece  of  wood.  The 
man  had  been  looking  for  a  second  piece  of  wood,  and  not  finding 
it,  had  seen  me  and  had  rescued  me  from  my  captivity. 

Then  the  farmer  and  his  wife  got  into  the  wagon  and  we  went 
out  of  the  city.  I  soon  noticed  that  we  were  going  up  the  valley 
toward  the  Black  Forest. 

Far  up  the  valley  the  farmer  drove;  nearer  and  nearer  came 
the  mountains  and  the  forests,  and  swifter  and  more  swift  the 
rivulets  came  down  the  hills. 

At  a  lonely  farmhouse  on  the  other  side  of  the  river,  which 
here  was  young  and  small,  the  wagon  stopped  at  last. 

It  was  the  home  of  the  farmer.  In  front  of  the  cellar  door 
the  keg  was  unloaded  and  I  thrown  into  a  corner  behind  the 
house. 

Here  I  lay  in  the  warm  spring  sunshine  and  nobody  bothered 
about  me.  I  heard  again,  as  once  before,  the  birds  singing  and 
the  shepherds  calling,  but  you  know  from  your  own  experience 
that  this  is  not  happiness  at  all  times. 

Old,  tired,  worn  people,  creeping  toward  the  grave,  are  only 


233  FROM    THE    STORY    OF   AN    UNHAPPY    LIFE. 

made  sadder  when  spring  comes  and  everything  is  young  and 
joyous,  because  they  feel  that  they  never  can  be  so  again,  and  that 
their  own  springtime  is  past  forever. 

So  it  happened  to  me,  the  old,  used-up  birch-child.  The 
singing  birds  and  the  yodeling  shepherds,  the  lovely  sunshine  and 
blossom-covered  meadows,  but  made  me  think  of  my  happy  youth, 
lost  forever,  and  made  my  soul  more  sad. 

In  front  of  tlie  house  the  farmer's  mother,  a  very  old,  wrinkled 
little  woman,  was  wont  to  sit,  thinking  and  dreaming,  warming 
herself  in  the  sun's  rays.  But  every  once  in  a  while  I  heard  her 
murmur :  "  What  good  am  I  here  on  earth  any  way  ?  "  and  then 
she  would  take  her  rosary  out  of  her  pocket  and  pray,  I  really 
believe  that  she  prayed  each  time  to  be  soon  and  graciously  re- 
lieved of  the  misery  of  this  life. 

Spring  passed  and  summer  came.  Both  seemed  to  bring  con- 
tent and  happiness  to  everything  inside  and  outside  of  the  farm- 
house, except  to  the  old  grandmother  and  to  me. 

We  sighed  in  the  midst  of  the  sunshine  and  longed  for  the 
end.    And  it  came. 

Scarcely  had  fall  brought  the  first  fog  over  the  valley  when  I 
saw  the  old  grandmother  no  more.  She  had  laid  dowTi  to  die. 
One  morning  they  carried  the  life-weary  body  down  into  the 
valley,  followed  by  her  weeping  children  and  grandchildren. 

She  had  finished  her  earthly  suffering,  the  old  woman,  and 
her  passing  away  filled  me  anew  with  the  desire  for  an  end. 

But  how  was  it  to  come?  I  often  wished  the  farmer's  wife, 
or  her  maid,  would  see  me  and  throw  me  into  the  kitchen  fire, 
or  that  the  river,  which  flowed  past  but  a  few  steps  away,  might 
carry  me  along  on  its  journey  toward  Father  Rhine. 

I  still  dreamed  of  a  grave  by  the  Rhine's  lovely  banks,  of 
which  I  used  to  have  a  glimpse  from  the  hills  of  my  youth. 

Then — it  was  on  the  feast  of  All  Saints — the  sluices  of  heaven 
were  opened  one  night,  and  for  days  the  rain  poured  down. 

The  river  rose  and  crept  up  toward  the  farmhouse  in  the 
narrow  valley.  The  children  laughed  with  delight  at  the  rising 
water,  while  their  father  watched  it  anxiously. 


H.  HANS  JAKOB.  ^v.  233 

The  little  ones  threw  bits  of  wood  into  the  rapid-flowing 
waves,  and  shouted  when  they  danced  away  out  of  sight  on  the 
swift  current. 

While  they  were  playing  thus,  little  Hans,  the  farmer's  young- 
est, spied  me  and  did  me  the  favor  of  throwing  me  into  the  waves. 
This  time  I  felt  sure  that  I  would  be  carried  out  into  the  Rhine, 
where  torn  and  broken,  I  might  at  last  die.  But  he  whom  mis- 
fortune has  set  out  to  pursue,  it  pursues  to  the  last.  So  too  with 
me.  I  had  hardly  been  carried  as  far  as  the  city  when  I  was 
floated  into  the  canal,  which  branches  off  here,  and  was  built  to 
water  the  meadows  of  the  Carthusians  long  ago. 

The  guard  had  opened  the  sluices  that  were  placed  here  and 
there  and  the  waters  carried  me  into  the  ditch  where  you  meet 
me  to-day.  When  the  cold  weather  came  the  guard  turned  the 
water  off  and  all  the  long  winter  I  lay  here  in  the  dry  ditch,  help- 
less, alone,  and  unhappy. 

In  the  beginning  of  spring  an  old  frog  sometimes  kept  mc 
company.  He  came  hopping  up  the  ditch  on  warm  evenings  and 
croaked  out  his  complaints  into  the  quiet  night. 

"  Oh,  these  terrible  people,"  he  would  croak.  "  How  they 
torture  us  poor  frogs.  In  the  springtime  when  we  sing  with  the 
joy  of  life  they  come,  the  heartless  ones,  catch  us  at  the  water 
edges,  and  cut  us  up  alive,  take  away  our  lower  limbs,  and  leave 
the  rest  of  our  body  to  its  agonies  and  its  pains. 

"  And  in  the  winter,  when  we  bury  ourselves  under  the  waters 
to  rest,  they  drag  us  out  and  treat  us  the  same  way." 

Thus  the  old  frog-patriarch  complained  and  croaked  until  one 
night  he  too  came  no  more.  Some  boys,  who  came  across  the 
meadows  in  the  warm  spring  night,  caught  him  and  cut  him  up. 

Since  then,  it  may  have  been  about  three  weeks  ago,  I  have 
been  alone  again  in  my  misery. 

I  often  saw  you  pass.  I  saw,  too,  how  you  would  sometimes 
stop  some  ragged  beggar  coming  along  the  way,  question  him, 
give  him  something,  and  lot  him  go  on.  And  then  I  would  think 
to  myself — if  that  long  dark  man  but  knew  your  misery  he  would 
surely  release  you. 


234  FROM    THE    STORY    OF    AN    UNHAPPY    LIFE. 

To-day  you  came  to  me  and  I  made  use  of  the  opportunity  and 
told  you  my  life. 

I  sec  it  in  your  face  that  you  have  had  sympathy  with  my 
tale  and  tlierefore  1  venture  to  ask  just  one  favor : 

Take  me  away  from  here.  But  do  not  throw  me  into  the 
river.  I  have  no  luck  in  the  water.  Over  there  in  the  grove  I 
see  smoke  rising.  Where  there  is  smoke  there  must  be  fire. 
Carry  me  to  that  fire  and  throw  me  into  it.  I  will  then  rise  as 
smoke  and  join  the  clouds  that  are  going  northward  just  now. 
May  a  happy  fate  carry  me  along  with  them  over  onto  the  heath 
where  I  was  horn,  and  there  let  me  drop  down  as  a  tear  into  the 
little  lake  beside  which  my  mother  stood,  and  over  which  I  passed 
tlie  happy  days  of  my  childhood.  By  this  time  the  farmer  will 
have  cut  down  the  birch  grove  and  my  mother  too,  but  when  the 
branches  of  a  young  generation  of  birches  are  reflected  in  the 
clear,  still  waters  of  the  lake,  then  I  will  weep  for  them  and  for 
myself — weep  for  my  past  and  for  their  future.  But  I  shall  smile 
too  among  those  tears,  smile,  because  I  may  weep  and  end  my 
existence  there  where  it  began;  l)ecause  I  shall  hear  birds  sing 
again  and  shepherd  boys  yodel  in  my  old  home,  as  I  did  when  I 
was  a  happy  l)irch-child. 

Thus  spoke  the  old  broom,  and  as  it  had  won  my  heart  by  the 
story  of  its  unhappy  life,  I  picked  it  up  and  said :  "  Poor  crea- 
ture, unhappy  victim  of  an  unhappy  race,  your  wish  shall  be  ful- 
filled. But  one  thing  I  ask  of  you  and  that  is,  you  must  not 
depart  this  life  in  bitterness.  You  must  first  forgive  the  beings 
who  made  you  unhappy. 

"  Believe  me,  old,  unhappy  birch-child,  there  is  a  much  heavier 
burden  of  misery  on  mankind  than  what  you  endured  behind  the 
kitchen  door.     Therefore  forgive  and  forget. 

"  Remember  that  men  are  much  more  unhappy  than  you  crea- 
tures. They  feel  life's  misery  much  more  and  they  must  more- 
over suffer  for  the  sins  of  our  first  parents,  who  drew  all  posterity 
and  all  Nature  into  the  curse  of  their  sin. 

"  Therefore  we  sigh  for  release  and  redemption,  and,  with  us, 
all  the  creatures  who  suffer  under  the  sins  of  man," 


H.  HANSJAKOB.  235 

The  broom  nodded  approvingly  and  I  went  on:  "  May  heaven 
fulfil  your  last  wish  and  let  you  rest  in  the  little  mountain  lake 
of  our  home.  And  if  my  own  wish  is  fulfilled,  I,  too,  will  rest 
some  day  at  the  foot  of  the  heath  in  which  is  the  lake  that  is  to 
be  your  grave." 

And  when  I  had  said  it  I  M^alked  over  to  the  edge  of  the  woods 
with  it.  Here  the  city  poor,  who  shared  with  me  the  old  Car- 
thusian monastery  that  was  now  the  poorhouse,  had  cleared  the 
ground  of  the  winter's  underbrush  and  loose  leaves,  and  were 
burning  up  both  in  a  merry  fire. 

Into  these  I  threw  my  poor  friend,  to  the  astonishment  of  tlie 
old  men,  who  saw  me  coming  along  with  an  old  broom. 

"  There's  no  loss  in  that,"  said  one  of  them.  But  none  sus- 
pected that  an  unhappy  creature  was  being  released  from  a  sad 
existence. 

I  stood  there  until  the  broom  was  burned  up.  In  light,  curl- 
ing smoke  it  rose  to  the  clouds  and  drifted  over  the  woods  toward 
the  Kintzig  Valley. 

I  looked  after  it  long  and  seriously.  Wlien  it  had  disappeared 
on  the  other  side  of  the  woods  I  turned  away  with  the  words: 
"  May  you  reach  the  hills  and  the  forests  safely,  where  we  were 
both  once  young  and  happy." 


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7 


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CLAT^DE   LIGHTFOOT.  o  8q 

HARRY   DEE.  o  8s 

TOM   PLAVFATR.  o  85 

PERCY  WYNN.  o  85 

MOSTLY  BOYS.  O  85 

FISHERMAN'S  DAUGHTER.  o  45 

FIVE  O'CLOCK  STORIES:  or,  The  Old  Tales  Told  Again.  o  7$ 

FLOWER    OF    THE    FLOCK,    THE,    and    the    Badgers    of    Belmont.      Bv 

Mai'rice   F.   Egan.  o  85 

FRED'S  LITTLE  DATTGHTER.     By  Sara  Trainer  Smith.  o  40 

GERTRUDE'S   EXPERIENCE.  045 

GODFREY  THE  HERMIT.    Bv  Canon  Schmid.  o  25 

GREAT-GRANDMOTHER'S    SECRET.  O  45 

HARRY  DEE:  or.  Working  it  Out.     By  Father  Finn.  085 

HEIR  OF  DREAMS,  AN.    Bv  Sallie  Margaret  O'MalleV.  040 

HER  FATHER'S  RIGHT  HAND.  O  45 

8 


HIS  FIRST  AND  LAST  APPEARANCE.    By  Father  Finn. 

HOP  BLOSSOMS.     By  Canon   Schmid. 

HOSTAGE  OF  WAR,  A.     By  Mary  G.  Bonesteel. 

HOW  THEY  WORKED  THEIR  WAY.    By  Maurice  F.  Egan. 

INUNDATION,  TOE.    Canon  Sciimid. 

JACK    HILDRETII    ON    THE   NILE.    By    Marion    Ames   Taggart. 

JACK  O'  LANTERN.     By  Mary  T.  Waggaman. 
KLONDIKE    PICNIC.     By    Eleanor    C.    Donnelly. 
LAMP  OF  THE  SANCTUARY.    By  Cardinal  Wiseman. 
LEGENDS   OF  THE   HOLY   CHILD  JESUS  from   Many   Lands. 

Fowler  Lutz. 
LITTLE  MISSY.    By  Mary  T.  Waggaman. 

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MADCAP  SET  AT  ST.  ANNE'S.    By  Marion  J.   Brunowe. 
MARCELLE.    a   True   Story. 
MASTER   FRIDOLIN.     By    Emmy   Giehrl. 
MILLY  AVELING.     By  Sara  Trainer  Smith.    Cloth, 
MOSTLY   BOYS.     By  Father  Finn. 
MYSTERIOUS  DOORWAY.    By  Anna  T.  Sadlier. 
MY    STRANGE   FRIEND.    By   Father   Finn. 
NAN  NOBODY.     By  Mary  T.  Waggaman. 

OLD  CHARLMONT'S  SEED-BED.    By  Sara  Trainer  Smith. 
OLD  ROBBER'S  CASTLE.    By  Canon   Schmid. 
OLIVE  AND  THE  LITTLE  CAKES. 
OVERSEER  OF  MAHLBOURG.    By  Canon   Schmid. 
PANCHO  AND  PANCHITA.     By  Mary  E.  Mannix. 
PAULINE  ARCHER.     By  Anna  T.   Sadlier. 
PERCY   WYNN;  or,  Making  a  Boy  of  Him.    By  Father  Finn. 
PICKLE  AND  PEPPER.    By  Ella  Loraine  Dorsey. 
PRIEST  OF  AUVRIGNY. 

QUEEN'S  PAGE.    By  Katharine  Tynan  Hinkson. 
RICHARD;  or.  Devotion  to  the  Stuarts. 
ROSE  BUSH.     By  Canon  Schmid. 
SEA-GULL'S  ROCK.    By  J.  Sandeau. 
SUMMER  AT  WOODVILLE.    By  Anna  T.   Sadlier. 
TALES  AND  LEGENDS  OF  THE  MIDDLE  AGES.    F.  De  Capella 
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TOM'S  LUCKPOT.    By  Mary  T.   Waggaman. 
TREASURE  OF  NUGGET  MOUNTAIN.    By  M.  A.  Taggart. 
VILLAGE  STEEPLE,  THE. 

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NOVELS  AND    STORIES. 

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CIRCUS  RIDER'S  DAUGHTER,  THE.    A  Novel.    By  F.  v.  Brackel.      i  25 

9 


I  00 

0  25 

0  40 

0  75 

0  40 

Cloth, 

0  8s 

0  40 

0  85 

0  25 

By  A. 

0  75 

0  40 

0  8s 

0  40 

0  45 

0  25 

0  8s 

0  85 

0  40 

0  25 

0  40 

0  40 

0  25 

0  45 

0  25 

0  40 

0  40 

0  8s 

0  85 

0  45 

0  40 

0  45 

0  25 

0  40 

0  40 

k.  0  75 

0  85 

0  85 

r.  0  40 

0  25 

0  8s 

0  40 

0  8s 

0  45 

r.  0  85 

0  40 

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SERMONS  ON  THE  SEVEN  DEADLY  SINS.    By  Rev.  F.  Hunolt,  S.J. 

2  vols.     Translated  by  Rev.  John  Allen,   D.D.  net,  5  00 

SHORT  SERMONS.     By   Rev.   F.  Hunolt,  S.J.    s  vols.,  10  00 

SHORT   SERMONS   FOR  LOW   MASSES.    Schouppe,   S.J.  net,  i  25 

SYNOPSIS  THEOLOGIAE  DOGMATICAE  AD  MENTEM  S.  THOMAE 
AQUINATIS,  hodiernis  moribus  accommodata,  auctorc  Ad.  Tanquerey, 
S.S.: 

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nei^  4  00 

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TWO  EDGED  SWORD.  Ey  Rev.  Augustine  Wirth,  O.S.B.  Taper,  net,  o  25 
VADE    MECUM    SACERDOTUM,    continens    Pieces    ante    et    post    Missam, 

niodum    providendi     infirmos,     necnon    multas     Benedictionum     Formulas. 

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MISCELLANEOUS. 

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A   LADY.     Manners  and  Social   Usages.     By  Lelia  Hardin  Bugg.  o  75 

AIDS  TO  CORRECT  AND  EFFECTIVE  ELOCUTION.  With  Selected 
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BONE  RULES;  or,  Skeleton  of  English  Grammar.  By  Rev.  J.  B.  Tabb, 
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CATECHISM  OF  FAMILIAR  THINGS.  Their  History,  and  the  Events 
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CATHOLIC  HOME  ANNUAL.     Stories  by  Best  Writers.  0  25 

CORRECT  THING  FOR  CATHOLICS,  THE.  By  Lelia  Hardin  Bugg.  0  75 
ELOCUTION  CLASS.  A  Simplification  of  the  Laws  and  Principles  of  Ex- 
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EVE  OF  THE  REFORMATION,  THE.  An  Historical  Essay  on  the  Re- 
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GAMES  OF  CATHOLIC  AMERICAN  AUTHORS: 
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Series  II.,  «'"''  °  ^S 

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READING  AND  THE  MIND,  WITH  SOMETHING  TO  READ.  By  J.  F. 
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READINGS   AND   RECITATIONS   FOR  JUNIORS.    O'Grady.         net,  o  50 
SELECT    RECITATIONS    FOR    CATHOLIC    SCHOOLS    AND    ACAD- 
EMIES.   By  Eleanor  O'Grady.  i  00 

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